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zealouswerewolfcollector · 3 months

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To Evil End

Written for a prompt at @silmkinkmeme. Also inspired by homelikecatastrophe's O softly tread.

T, 2883 words, Maedhros/Fingon, warning for muddled consent lines and implied/referenced character death

On Ao3

It is Celegorm’s people who find him wandering in northern Ossiriand twenty-five years after the battle. Wearing rags, bearing scars, he doesn’t answer to his name or title but walks with them when prompted.

He looks through Celegorm and doesn’t speak to him. When Celegorm sleeps, he tries to leave the tent, but the soldiers catch him again. Dazed, he returns. Celegorm ties him up and sends for Curufin.

---

“Do you believe he is in thrall to the Enemy?” Curufin asks.

“He would not be the first one,” Celegorm answers. “We might not find out until it is too late.”

“What should we do with him then?”

“Killing him might be for the best.”

“What shall we tell Nelyo?”

“Nothing. Few know that he lives. My people will keep silent.”

“Can you be certain? Your people betrayed you in Nargothrond. What if Nelyo finds out? He might have forgiven us Ingoldo’s death, but he will not forgive Findekáno’s. Even if we can be certain he will never find out, will you do it? Kill him with your own hands?”

“It will not be too difficult. He can hardly put up a fight in this state.”

“You know that is not what I mean.”

“Does Russandol live?”

The hoarse voice startles the brothers, and they turn to meet Fingon’s suddenly alert gaze.

"He does," says Curufin, the first to compose himself.

A distant smile breaks upon Fingon’s face. He stands, his hands still tied to the pole.

“Take me to him.”

---

They catch up with Maedhros not too far from Amon Ereb. Fingon’s hair and most of his face are hidden, but Maedhros almost tumbles off his horse when his look falls upon the mysterious rider.

He stands still while they approach. Fingon dismounts, walks to Maedhros, grabs him by the shoulders and kisses him on the lips.

---

“How did you survive?” Maedhros asks over supper – the best meat and wine Amon Ereb has to offer. “We were told of your death.”

“It was a near thing,” Fingon says. His smile is almost wistful. “I was taken captive instead.”

“Were you brought to him?”

“Yes.”

“Did he personally interrogate you?”

“He did.”

Maedhros doesn’t ask what Fingon told him.

“Were you put to work?”

“Yes, in the mines.”

“Did you escape?”

“I must have. I cannot remember.”

A muscle strains in Maedhros’s jaw.

“Why did you kiss me?” he asks. “We had never kissed before with others present.”

Fingon smiles at him.

“We have been apart for decades. I escaped thralldom. I missed you. Things that mattered before matter less now.”

Maedhros’s eyes narrow.

“And I did kiss you once before others,” Fingon adds. “Back home when Ango dared me. Remember?”

“Yes,” Maedhros says.

The lines on his forehead smooth over.

“You will be under guard,” he says. “You will not leave the walls of Amon Ereb. You will not carry weapons.”

Fingon gives a placid nod. “For how long?” he asks.

“Until I can be sure.”

“We never did it to you,” Fingon says, still smiling.

“You made a mistake.”

---

Fingon earns his freedom piece by piece over the years. The number of his guards is reduced to one and only when Maedhros isn’t with him. Sometimes, he goes for walks with Maedhros or his guard. At some point, Maedhros stops locking Fingon in his chamber when he is away. And then he stops going away, even though he never spent much time in Amon Ereb before. He preferred patrolling and hunting, returning to the fortress a few times a year. Now, he never leaves it.

---

“He makes me uneasy,” Maglor admits to Caranthir. “I cannot stay in Amon Ereb for longer than a month. Even if he is not in the room, I feel his presence.”

They are wandering in eastern Ossiriand, among Amras’s Laiquendi friends.

“It’s the eyes," Caranthir says. “Too often, they are vacant. As if whoever inhabits that hröa has fled it.”

“And that terrible smile of his,” Maglor says, shuddering. “Like a layer of bright color painted over a rotting roof.”

“It was different with Nelyo, wasn’t it?” Caranthir asked.

“He never seemed absent. Even when his memories overtook him. There was always fire in his eyes.”

“Perhaps he needs time.”

“Perhaps,” Maglor says doubtfully.

---

The first time Fingon tries to kiss him, Maedhros pushes him away. The fifth time – he kisses back.

---

Maedhros sits with his eyes closed, while Fingon braids his hair.

“This feels nice,” he says as Fingon gently scratches his scalp.

“Isn’t this the life we always dreamed of?” Fingon asks. "Us. Together. We have never lived in one place with each other for so long.”

Maedhros smiles as he does every time Fingon mentions something from the past – another small proof that he is still Fingon.

“It is,” Maedhros says. “Despite the circumstances.”

He glances at Celegorm’s letter before him and snorts.

“What is it?” Fingon asks.

“Listen to what this idiot writes,” Maedhros says. “While you and Findekáno were busy braiding each other’s hair—”

Fingon laughs. “Don’t tell him how right he was!”

“Never. While you and Findekáno were busy braiding each other’s hair, my scouts found out— Oh.”

“Is something wrong?” Fingon asks.

“Lúthien’s son has the Silmaril,” Maedhros says quietly. “He rules now in his grandfather’s kingdom.”

Fingon says nothing. Maedhros stares at the letter for a moment.

“I should write to this Dior,” he says.

“Do you think he will be inclined to listen?”

“If I am persuasive, perhaps. He is young, and the Girdle is no more.”

“May I kiss you first?” Fingon asks.

“You must.”

Fingon leans down. Maedhros tilts his head back and pecks him on the lips.

“I love you,” he whispers.

Fingon smiles. “I love you too.”

---

Fingon walks to the gates of the fortress. The guard tries to stop him, but Fingon kills him, takes his sword and kills three more people that stand in his way before he is overpowered.

---

Amon Ereb has no dungeon, so they chain Fingon in the wine cellar.

He lies there, scraping his fingers against the damp wall until Maedhros comes in. Fingon sits up and meets his gaze. They stare at each other for long minutes.

“You killed four people,” Maedhros says.

“They would not let me leave.”

“Why did you want to leave?”

“I cannot remember.”

Maedhros kicks an empty barrel. It cracks, then collapses upon itself.

“What am I supposed to do with you now?”

“Kiss me,” Fingon says.

“You killed four people,” Maedhros repeats, incredulous.

“You have killed more. Kiss me, please.”

Maedhros does.

---

“Do you think it is possible to lock me somewhere I can see the stars?” Fingon asks.

“I am afraid not,” Maedhros says.

Fingon nods sadly. “I miss the stars,” he says, snuggling closer to Maedhros. “If only your people had let me leave, I would not have killed them.”

“Why did you want to leave?” Maedhros asks, tracing a dark scar along Fingon’s ribs.

Fingon’s hands twitch in the chains.

“I have told you many times. I cannot remember. You must know what it is like to be so confused, to have no idea where you are or why you do what you do. You bit my hand once. I still bear the mark.”

“It was a few days after you brought me back. I was delirious and did not recognize you,” Maedhros says. “This is different.”

"I cannot remember," Fingon says.

Maedhros dresses and leaves the cellar, calling the guards back.

---

Maedhros doesn’t tell his brothers what happened, but they find out anyway.

Maglor is the first to arrive. Then, Curufin. Then, Caranthir. Maedhros forbids anyone from entering the cellar. He takes care of Fingon himself.

Once, Maglor catches him leaving the cellar half-dressed but says nothing.

---

All of Maedhros’s brothers are waiting for him in the hall. Celegorm and Amras are still wearing their travel-stained clothes.

“Welcome back,” Maedhros says.

Celegorm slowly turns to him. “How long were you going to keep it from us?” he asks.

Maedhros stares him down. “I have it under control.”

“Four of my people are dead!” Amras cries. “Their friends and families demand retribution. He has to die.”

“He was not in his right mind when he did it,” Maedhros says. “Anyone who has been a captive there could have done it. I could have done it. Our uncle would not put me to death for it.”

“Because it would mean war,” Celegorm says. “Be honest with yourself. He is clearly under the Enemy’s control.”

“There is nothing clear about it.”

“Were it anyone else in his place, you would not hesitate,” Celegorm says, raising his voice. “If you cannot find the strength to do it, I take it upon myself.”

“Of course,” Maedhros sneers. “What is another cousin’s blood on your hands?”

A dangerous glint brightens Celegorm’s eyes, but his voice is calm when he speaks.

“Ingoldo chose his own fate. Findekáno cannot even choose his because he has no will of his own. It will be a mercy. What life is it to live as the Enemy’s thrall and your pleasure slave?”

Maedhros staggers, speechless with rage.

“You still fuck him?” Amras exclaims. “Even after he killed my people?”

Maedhros ignores him. His heavy gaze falls on Maglor, who looks away.

“You told them,” Maedhros accuses.

“I did not use those words,” Maglor says. He raises his head. “But it is not right, Nelyo. What he did. What you do. It is not right. He is not right.”

“What does it matter the words he used?” Celegorm asks. “The result is not changed.”

“You are the last person who should speak of such things,” Maedhros snaps at him.

“Have you considered that I might have learned from my mistakes?”

“No.”

Celegorm laughs. “At least I never chained Lúthien and never touched her.”

He doesn’t move even when Maedhros strides to him, eyes flashing white.

“What Findekáno does,” Maedhros says very quietly, “he does of his own free will.”

“How can you know that? Perhaps it is Moringotto’s will that drives him to your bed. Perhaps he has simply realized it is his best chance to stay alive.”

“I refuse to discuss this with you,” Maedhros says, turning away.

“You cannot avoid this conversation. We all agree he cannot be allowed to live.”

“Not all.”

Both Celegorm and Maedhros turn to Curufin in shock.

“We can use him to get the Silmaril,” Curufin says. “We have to find a way to let Turukáno know his brother lives. We promise to hand Findekáno over to him unharmed if he takes his army to Doriath and brings us the Silmaril. Turukáno’s army is greater than ours. Dior will not be able to withstand him. When he gives us the Silmaril, we give him his brother. Everyone is happy. Then Turukáno can worry about what to do with Findekáno.”

“I doubt he would ever help us,” Caranthir says before Maedhros can regain his voice. “That plan is too convoluted and bound to fail. Why not simply have Findekáno speak to Dior on our behalf? He is still the High King. His father had Elwë’s respect. Findekáno is more likely to convince Dior to give up the Silmaril than any of us.”

“We cannot trust him to do it. He is too unstable,” Curufin says. “Dior might not trust a former thrall either.”

“Dior would never give up the Silmaril willingly,” Celegorm adds.

“Then the only thing left to do is to kill Findekáno,” Amras says. “My people will have justice.”

“Enough!” Maedhros cries. “They were my people too! There are too few of us left to make that distinction. You keep repeating it – my people, my brother. You are not the only one who grieves.”

Amras says nothing. He leaves the hall without looking at anyone. Four pairs of eyes stare at Maedhros in reproach.

“This discussion is over,” Maedhros says. “I care not what you have decided. Only my decision counts in this matter.”

He turns to the door. Celegorm moves to speak, but Maglor shakes his head.

“What do you intend to do with him, Nelyo?” he asks. Maedhros stops in his tracks. “Keep him in chains forever?” Maglor continues. “Trust me, I have no desire to see him dead. None of us does. If you knew for certain that he is not controlled by the Enemy, I would be the first to stand by your side. But you keep him chained because you have your doubts. How long can this continue?”

Maedhros stands still for a moment, then walks out without turning back.

“Think about it,” Maglor says before the door closes behind Maedhros.

---

Someone poisons Fingon’s custard. He suffers for a few days but lives. Maedhros doesn’t leave his side.

---

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Maedhros asks.

Fingon perks up. “Outside?”

“In the woods.”

“I would love to.”

Maedhros unchains him. Fingon brings his hands before him, so Maedhros can bind them with a rope. They leave the fortress together. Fingon looks up at the stars and smiles. He strolls among the trees, his bound hands caressing the bark. He stops when they reach his favorite glade where they have made love more than once.

“Should we?” he asks Maedhros, turning back.

His smile freezes on his lips. He looks at the knife in Maedhros’s hand and then at his face.

“My brothers want you dead,” Maedhros says. “They believe you are still in thrall to the Enemy.”

“But I love you,” Fingon says.

“I am losing my control over them,” Maedhros says. “No one believes you are still yourself.”

“What do you believe?”

Maedhros yanks the rope binding Fingon’s hands and pulls him close. He puts the knife at his throat.

“Prove to me you are Findekáno,” he pleads. “Prove it to me, and you will live.”

“How can I prove it now if I failed to prove it during these years?” Fingon asks. A drop of blood slides along the blade. “We have joined fëar. Surely you would have noticed if I were still a thrall.”

“You hide something. I felt it, but I never asked.”

“So do you! You have ever since you returned. I spent twenty-five years in the dark without seeing the stars or the sun. Some horrors are not meant to be shared. I understand it now.”

Maedhros shakes his head. “Findekáno would not be content sitting idly for years and playing husband to me. Findekáno would fight me if I put him in chains. Findekáno would be wracked with guilt after killing innocents.”

“I have changed. You changed, too, after your captivity. How could we not?”

“It is not a good enough reason.”

“I love you. Isn’t it enough? Were you not happy with me? I was.”

“Findekáno would rather die than live with the doubt that he was the Enemy’s spy.”

“Findekáno was a fool!” Fingon leans forward, the blade pressing into his skin. “Kill me then if that is your decision. But I will not make it easy for you. I will not absolve you of guilt. I will not accept death with grace. I want to live. I want to live, Russandol.”

Maedhros’s hand shakes. Fingon closes his eyes.

---

Maedhros returns alone, bloodied, clutching a long, dark braid. He closes himself in Fingon’s room for three days. No one asks him what he has done. No one speaks of Fingon again.

---

Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin fall in Doriath. The Silmaril disappears.

---

Maedhros seals the letter to Elwing, knowing it will be the last.

---

All three of them leave the fortress together but unaware of each other. Entranced, they follow the call. The treelight brings tears to their eyes. They keep walking until they see the Necklace of the Dwarves, bejeweled with the most precious gems of Valinor – all paling before the Silmaril.

They are so enraptured by the jewel that at first, they don’t see the one who has brought it to them. Then all three slowly look up and stare at Fingon – bloodstained, weary Fingon, holding the Nauglamír in his left hand.

Maedhros sways and stumbles forward, pulling him into his embrace.

“Is this enough to prove I am myself?” Fingon asks.

Maedhros only nods, eyes shut tight against the tears and the light.

“You let him live,” Amras says absently, still staring at the Silmaril.

“And it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?” Maedhros says.

Amras isn’t listening to him. He slowly reaches for the jewel.

“I would not do that,” Fingon says.

He raises his right hand to show the terrible burn on the palm.

“The Silmaril burned you,” Maedhros exclaims, carefully taking Fingon’s hand. “Why?”

Maglor points to Fingon’s hands and clothes.

“Whose blood is that?” he asks, suddenly overcome with terror for people he has never met and never will.

Fingon smiles his distant, empty smile. “Not mine.”

“How did the jewel come into your possession?” Maedhros asks.

Still holding the Nauglamír close, Fingon turns to Maedhros.

“I will tell you everything,” he says, “but for now, let us rejoice. We have the Silmaril, Russandol, and we are together again. All is well.”

Maedhros looks at him, his eyes reflecting the fell light in Fingon’s. He puts a tender kiss on Fingon’s wrist.

“All is well,” he repeats.

#silmarillion #fingon #maedhros #russingon #celegorm #sons of feanor #all of them are here except amrod #silmkinkmeme #silm fic #zwc fic

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imakemywings · 7 months

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Yoooo Im still reeling at the fact that the Kings of Numenor are descendants of Turgon like FREAKING TURGON HOLY SHIT. Do you like Turgon? He's such an interesting character and I never saw his action of building a hidden city as an act of cowardice despite popular belief.

I LOVE Turgon he's so cool. My traumatized little mew mew.

Usually when a divine power comes to you in a dream and says "hey do this to save your people" you might want to at least consider doing it (and his downfall comes when he stops listening to Ulmo). And one thing I think is always relevant to consider when thinking about Turgon's character is that he convinced all these people to do Gondolin with him. Literally a THIRD of the Nolofinwean forces go with Turgon and just disappear into the ether never to be seen again as far as anyone else is concerned. A THIRD of their forces decided Turgon was the guy to follow. Even Aredhel, who backs out later, initially was onboard. Personally, I think it says a lot about how close they were--which is why my h/c is that they were each other's favorite sibling. This says something about him: either that he's very persuasive, or a very strong leader, or very likeable, or something. People don't just up and abandon their king to follow a different guy for no reason, and we know that Fingolfin was also well-liked, so Turgon did have competition.

And I don't think that protecting the people who chose to come with him was an act of cowardice. Turgon had a responsibility to the Gondolindrim and I think he took it very seriously, possibly especially after the trauma of the Helcaraxe and then their first battle in Middle-earth where his little brother Argon died. If Turgon had a downfall, it wasn't cowardice, it was pride, and allowing himself to believe that staying in Gondolin was safer than taking Ulmo's advice and abandoning the city (although in his defense, you can imagine how he convinced himself they were safer with city walls than no city walls, Valar be damned).

Turgon was also such a warrior that even in Bilbo's time the goblins still fear his sword. In The Lay of the Children of Hurin Tolkien calls him "Turgon the mighty" and notes that Melkor particularly wanted to catch Turgon at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. In this same battle, he also gets the sexy sexy epithet "Turgon the terrible towering in anger" as he hacks an escape from the battle for him and his soldiers.

And this is another thing--while staying hidden was key to keeping Gondolin safe--Melkor never did find it except through trickery--he still comes to Fingon's aid during the Nirnaeth.

"But now a cry went up, passing up the wind from the south from vale to vale, and Elves and Men lifted their voices in wonder and joy. For unsummoned and unlooked for Turgon had opened the leageur of Gondolin, and was come with an army ten thousand strong, with bright mail and long swords and spears like a forest. When Fingon heard from afar the great trumpet of Turgon his brother, the shadow passed and his heart was uplifted, and he shouted aloud: ...The day has come! Behold, people of the Eldar and Fathers of Men, the day has come!'"

Turgon also does a great job making buddies with Men which is fun for him.

"Now in the phalanx of the guard of the King broke through the ranks of the Orcs, and Turgon hewed his way to the side of his brother; and it is told that the meeting of Turgon with Hurin, who stood beside Fingon, was glad in the midst of battle."

He stands out to me for how we never get any indication that he takes issue with his daughter Idril choosing to marry Tuor, a mortal, even though this means that should Turgon ever die, a Man will become prince consort of Gondolin (Idril is named as his heir, so presumably she would be a ruling queen).

I've never bought into the notion of Turgon having a contentious relationship with Maeglin either, for reasons explained here.

This man has just had so much trauma...Elenwe dying on the Helcaraxe, Argon getting killed as soon as they arrive, Aredhel being murdered right in front of him by her abusive spouse, Fingon getting stomped into jelly, Fingolfin's mutilated corpse getting delivered to him after the duel with Melkor...is it any WONDER he chooses to go down with the city when he realizes he made the wrong choice in staying?

"And [Thorondor] laid [Fingolfin] upon a mountain-top that looked from the north upon the hidden valley of Gondolin; and Turgon coming built a high cairn over his father. No Orc dared ever after to pass over the mount of Fingolfin or draw nigh his tomb, until the doom of Gondolin was come and treachery was born among his kin."

Want to talk about carrying on the family legacy? By the time Turgon takes the crown of high king of the Noldor, he is the last one left of Fingolfin's immediate descendants.

And you know, I think it's fun and cool of him to never forgive the Feanorians for abandoning the rest of them after Alqualonde. He should get to say whatever nasty shit to them he wants to. Worst cousins of Arda until Maeglin decides to give them a run for their money.

You know who else is related to Turgon of course--Elrond and Arwen. No wonder they're so cool and sexy.

#asks #anonymous #turgon

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artistsfuneral · 1 year

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part 9

Jaskier greets Geralt with the brightest, warmest smile, the one smile that's reserved for Geralt only because it used to make him blush so lovely. Geralt doesn't blush now, but his eyes grow a bit wider, he sits up a bit straighter and Jaskier knows there's still hope left. It's still Geralt. Even after all this time it's Geralt.

"You're Geralt of Rivia, right? Your reputation kind of precedes you." Before his eyebrows can even fully knit together in a frown, Jaskier is already talking again. "Would you like to play Gwent? I heard you're always up for a game," he laughs and his heart flutters a bit when he notices Geralt visibly relax back into his seat. "Sure, have a seat," is the calm and collected answer he recieves, but the bard can see the tiniest hint of a smile in the corner of Geralt's lips as the witcher reaches for his pack.

"I'd like to apologize in advance," Jaskier grins sheepishly as he pulls out his own deck and sits down, "I hardly have any good cards so it might be a quick game, but I was told I'm a decent player."

Geralt huffs out a breath that would have been a chuckle if he wasn't in a tavern full of strangers, sitting across from a man he has never met before. Which reminds him- "The name's Jaskier, by the way. It's lovely to finally get to meet you." Geralt raises an eyebrow and places a card. Jaskier frowns and wishes for his future deck of cards, the one Geralt helped him to collect until it was perfect. The two of them spent countless nights across from each other, playing Gwent again and again until they had to get new decks because they knew each other's strategies too well.

"Most people wouldn't agree with you," the witcher says and Jaskier scoffs at him without thinking too much about it. "Most people are stupid." Geralt stills for a moment and Jaskier can feel golden eyes piercing him, but he can't seem to mind. He does make a face though, before placing his cards, because there's absolutely no way he will win this game and what on earth is he going to do after that? Before having raised Ciri, Geralt was hardly known for his patience towards strangers and well-

"You're correct," Geralt says as Jaskier loses with his next move,

@fingons-rad-harp @sinfulpetgirlrd @wren-of-the-woods @basilikum7 @eveljerome @this-is-not-a-slow-burn @araglas1989 @alaskawho @cinary @swan--writes @mirrorthoughts @chaoticfandomthot @sonatabee

#the witcher #geraskier #artistsfuneral about the witcher #witcher #geralt #jaskier #geralt of rivia

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thetempleofthemasaigoddess · 10 months

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Discovering Elrond is your soulmate would involve...

Elrond x reader. This fic is dedicated to the amazing @montyc.

*****

💑 It is said that soulmates are a gift from Eru, bestowed upon the first Elves who awoke at Cuiviénen so that they might find their match and immediately start populating Middle-Earth. From then on, almost every Elf has one, meant to pair each of them with their intended mate, the one they will -or at least should- be with forever.

💑 An Elf is already paired with their soulmate when they are born, but they can only discover their bond through physical contact. When this happens, a glyph appears on both of their bodies -the same, on the same place on their skin, different from that of every other couple on Arda- which allows them to recognize each other. It can be a handshake, a hug, a kiss, but also an accidental contact or even a slap or a fist to the stomach; the moment the two bodies even just brush against each other, the glyphs materialize... even though it may take a while for an Elf to notice, which can in turn make it more difficult to find its mate, especially if it appeared on a private part of the body.

💑 Soulmates have long been a subject of study for Elves. It is known that glyphs can only appear if the two soulmates' skin touch - not through clothes, or bandages, to say nothing of armor- that they turn black on the skin of an Elf whose soulmate has died, that in rare cases they can bring together three partners instead of two and that the only way to make them disappear is for the carrier to kill their soulmate... but no one has ever known, or written, whether Half-Elves have them or not.

💑 Elrond was first told about soulmates by Maglor -who still had not found his, and secretly suspected he simply did not have one- and Maedhros -whose glyph matched Fingon's- after he had already been parted from his parents, and because of this he never had the opportunity to ask them about it. Elros never had one, but he had chosen to be counted among the Edain and had married a mortal woman, which probably meant he would not have had one in the first place since soulmates are a prerogative of Elves alone.

💑 Even though he is fully immortal, Elrond has started to suspect the same fate of his brother awaits him, since technically he was not born an Elf but instead chose to be counted among them. Most Elves meet their match early in life, not rarely even before reaching adulthood and seldom, conversely, after their second or third century of existence - a threshold he has long left behind him.

💑 That does not necessarily mean anything, let alone that he is doomed to a loveless existence, and to remain alone and unhappy for the rest of his days. Not all pairs of soulmates find happiness -some die, or are otherwise separated from their partners, or are simply too different in spirit or character to make a good match, despite having been paired by Eru Himself- which means, consequently, that is also possible to find love without having one.

💑 Maybe somewhere there is an Elf destined to never carrry a glyph, because their intended partner is Elrond, a Half-Elf - which will make it infinitely more challenging for them to find each other, but still; maybe one day he will fall in love with one of the race of Men, like his brother did, and have a happy, loving, fulfilling relationship... doomed to end soon, since his partner will die and he will not. Or maybe he will find love, just not romantic love, and he will live the rest of his life surrounded by friends, finding fulfillment in his duties at court and other interests, and while he will never marry, or raise a family, that does not mean he will never feel happy, and at peace...

💑 Years pass. Decades pass. And then, just when his already meager hopes have started fading altogether and the mere sight of a couple walking arm in arm fills his heart with melancholic solitude, he meets you. Actually, the two of you already know each other; you are one of the many warriors at the service of the King, and you could not help meeting Elrond, who is his herald. You are not exactly friends, more good acquaintances, but you have a good opinion of each other: you never treated him differently because of his Half-Elven nature, and you admire his intelligence, kindness, even in the face of his detractors, and readiness to help whoever needs it, while he appreciates your bravery, already tested in many battles, and loyalty to the King, as well as the fact that you are one of the few warriors at court who never gets involved in brawls and is capable of, and even inclined to, solve their problems with words and not with their sword.

💑 He once during a ball invited you to dance, since you were the only lady left sitting (!) and you declined, since you were not his responsability, and the two of you then spent two hours happily chatting, sitting side by side. In an occasion you helped him carry a heavy heap of books he needed to write a speech for the King; a few weeks later he found your favourite dagger where you had lost it in the gardens, and brought it back to you. You think he is very handsome, especially when he smiles. He thinks you are lovely, especially when you wear that cape that makes the colour of your eyes stand out.

💑 You think well and like each other - at a distance, well enough to exchange a nod and a smile when your paths cross and to greet each other and make small talk during social occasions. But would you have ever expected to find out Elrond is your soulmate, or he, you? No, not even in a million years. Ad yet, this is exactly what happens.

💑 An ally of the kingdom has asked for help in the face of an invading army, and Gil-Galad has answered calling for a thousand soldiers to lead to war. You were, obviously, one of the first to volunteer, but you were surprised to learn Elrond would also join the expedition, not taking care of the wounded even though you knew he is a capable healer, but taking part in the fight together with the other warriors.

💑 "I am our lord's herald after all; it is my duty to be by his side, in war as well as in peace." he points out one day when you meet in the armory and you see him choosing a blade to bring to the front; he smiles "Are you surprised? I may not be as experienced a warrior as you are, but I have been trained, and I like to think I have some skills with a blade." You apologize for having underestimated him, and admit you have no reason to think he cannot fight only because the only talents of his you were aware of are of a more peaceful nature.

💑 "Maybe we will see each other on the battlefield, (name)?" "I doubt; I will be part of the third company, which means I will be fighting from the rear." you admit ruefully; this is due to strategic decisions, not to your battle talent or lack thereof, and you do not doubt you will see as much of the battle as any other soldier, but it would have been more honourable for a warrior to fight from, and be part of, the forefront, where the King himself will be leading the troops "But I wish you good luck, Elrond, truly; may we both survive unscathed, or otherwise may we nurse our wounds side by side." This is a common wish warriors exchange before battle; Elrond seems touched, and smiles to you -he has a very beautiful smile, you cannot helo but notice- before returning the sentiment.

💑 In the end, you do meet on the battlefield, even though at first you do not realize. As usual, the complex and attentive disposal of the troops planned by the King has dissolved into chaos, and warriors of different companies, including the riders forced to dismount after their horses had been killed, fight side by side, awkwardly attempting to follow some kind of strategy but reducing themselves to simply go on, stay alive, and kill as many foes as they can; including you. Three warriors wearing the colors of the enemy seem to spring out every time you best one, you have no idea where the comrades of your troop are -dead? Wounded and unconscious? Or simply pushed to the other side of the battlefield?- and moreover a strong wind has begun to blow, rising a veritable dust storm and making it even harder to distinguish who is in front of you, apart from the colour of their armor...

💑 It is then that you see him. Elrond has just vanquished two enemies, but he paid an heavy price for it; kneeling on the ground, propped on his blood-stained sword and his arm also shedding scarlet drops, he fights to breathe, aware that still and genuflect as he is he offers an easy target to any enemy, but he cannot help it, he just needs a moment... A moment to rest...

💑 That moment is almost too much, since an enemy soldier approaches and raises a sword against him; Elrond instinctively does the same to defend himself, already aware that it is too late, but another soldier intervenes, vanquishing the enemy in a few elegant blows. That soldier is you, who were nearby, saw a comrade about to be attacked and intervened to defend him.

💑 You cannot see his face, because of the helm he is wearing; he cannot see yours, because of the dust and the blood caking it. But he knows you are smiling, with your dirty armour and torn cape, as you offer him your hand, and take his and help him raise. "Brave heart, friend." you encourage him "This is not the day we are going to die."

💑 A moment later you lose him; and then the battle is won, and there are wounded to treat -Lindon's, your allies', and your enemies equally- and it is a whole day and a night later that you are back home, and you are free to disrobe and take a bath, and it is then that you notice something on your hip, under a tiny mole you had since you were born, close but untouched by an old battle wound. It is a glyph, small but clear against the colour of your skin.

💑 You have met your soulmate.

💑 You are sure the person responsible for it is the Elf whose life you saved and who you helped on his feet during the battle; the glyph was not there when you left for the battlefield, and while you might have touched other soldiers on that very day -passing the weapons along, helping the wounded on the back of their horses... not to mention the enemy warrior who, lost their weapon but determined to best you, attempted to throttle you with their bare hands- he is the only one you remember whose skin actually pressed against yours, without the barrier of clothes or armor... and more than anything else, you feel it. You are sure of it, just like you are sure of your name, with that simple, instinctive and chaste touch you awoke a bond that had laid dormant ever since the two of you were born, waiting.

💑 You still cannot believe it; you have never felt so excited, and at the same time more nervous and uncertain than now. Love and relationships, let alone marriage, are of little interest for many warriors, more attached to their weapons than to a spouse -"Do you know why a dagger is better than a wife? They can both procure me lunch, but my dagger does not expect a gift on its nameday." is a particularly popular, albeit tasteless, saying- but it has always been different for you, ever since you were a child and you listened to the story of the first encounter of your parents, whose first physical contact happened when your mother, a healer, gave the kiss of life to your father, who had accidentally fallen in a lake and almost drown. You never thought that devoting your life to arms meant renouncing love and family, and in the privacy of your heart you had always hoped you would one day meet your other half, the partner Eru had created for you...

💑 And finally it has happened!... even though you have no idea who he is, you reflect as you lie in the tub full of hot water, brushing your fingers against the glyph on your hip and wishing it were instead a name, perfectly readable, in the runes you have been taught when you were a child. You are sure the Elf you met during the battle is a male and, given the fact he wore the same armour as you, a subject of Lindon and not of the kingdom Gil-Galad had gone to the aid of, but beyond that, you know absolutely nothing about him! He might reside at court like you, or -more probably, since you know all the warriors who serve on the King's personal guard and are almost sure you must have touched each of them at some point- conversely he might live in one of the many villages in Lindon whose soldiers answered the call, some of which lie many days ride from the palace. He could be anywhere, and you have no way to find out who he is unless you begin scouring the whole kindom and asking to meet every single soldier who was there!

💑 Is this really it?, you wonder as you cross swords in the courtyard with the other warriors or enjoy a goblet of wine at the balcony of your room, admiring the sunset; you have met your soulmate, and then you have lost him, less than a minute later, and now you are doomed to spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been had you had the chance to talk or to realize sooner what had happened? What sort of cruel joke is this? Is he also thinking about you? Has he realized his soulmate is the warrior who helped him during the battle? Is he happy about it? Is he also looking for you, even though you are almost sure in the state you were then, not even your mother could have recognized you? Or maybe he is happy, even relieved, because he is satisfied with his life as it already is, and has no interest in meeting you and discovering whether you are actually made for each other?

💑 Maybe he already has a partner. It is rare, but not unheard of, and it is known of people who found love and happiness after they lost their soulmate, whatever the reason, or even who rejected the bond to be with someone they had already met or simply because they were not happy with the person they were meant to be with. Having a soulmate does not authomatically translate to marital bliss, and not finding yours does not mean you have lost your only chance at love and happiness, but still...

💑 Still, it saddens you, and even if you do not expect to fall desperately in love as soon as you are face to face, nor to have him kneel and ask for your hand just after exchanging names, you wish you could meet him, even just once, or at least know his name...

💑 In those days you spend so deep in your thoughts you barely notice what is happening around you, you meet Elrond - once, in the library, where you have gone to fetch a book for your mother. As usual, you exchange greetings, and a smile; you are happy to see he survived the battle unscathed or almost, and he is kind enough to help you find the book you are looking for, since he knows the library like the palm of his hand. You do not reflect on the fact that since he was also on the battlefield that day and you do not remember ever touching him before, he could very well be the person you are looking for; and yet, he is.

💑 Just like you did, Elrond discovered his glyph after the battle; he had finished taking care of the wounded, he took off his tunic to bandage his arm... and then he noticed the glyph, peeking above the waistband of his trousers. Just like you, he realized the physical contact had to have happened during the battle, and the culprit was doubtlessly the warrior who had saved him during the few minutes he had spent alone, having gotten separated from the King. Just like you, he has absolutely no idea who that person is -he does not even know whether they are a male or a female, since he appreciates the company of both genders- and, as a consequence, how to find them.

💑 He should feel disheartened, even hopeless, but instead his heart is so full of excitation and enthusiasm, he can barely stay still; so what if he has to search through the whole kingdom to look for the partner Eru has chosen for him? So what if he knows absolutely nothing about them, including whether they are interested in a courtship... or already in one, or even married? He will find his soulmate, and ask for a possibility to turn that bond that had been chosen for them in a committed, voluntary relationship. And whatever happens from then on, he knows already he will not regret it.

💑 He is in luck, because he has to reflect on the best course of action only for a few days before the perfect idea hits him. Gil-Galad has decided to host a festival to celebrate the recent victory, and all the warriors who took part in the battle will be invited. Even though he is already so busy with his duties, and the task could easily be entrusted to the courts' scribes, Elrond volunteers to oversee the writing and the sending of the invitations, which he does, having them signed with his name... and with the glyph at the top of each sheet of parchment, as if it were a monogram. Soulmates glyphs are very diverse, with so many existing across all elvendom, and no one will realize what it actually is, except the soldier who carries its match on their body, and who will know that the person who drew it is Elrond! Then it will be up to the other person to act, revealing themselves or choosing not to, but still, he reflects as he sits at one of the desks in the library to begin copy the same short message over and over again, it is better than doing nothing and hope for a miracle.

💑 The next day, you are back at the library, returning the book your mother finished reading; you are in a horrible mood, since one of your dearest friends has just announced their engagement to their soulmate, who they easily found since their glyph had appeared on the back of their left hand. You are happy for your friend, but seeing them so happy and fulfilled with their soulmate has made you feel even more alone and frustrated, dejected in your desire to find your partner. You will have a few days of leave in a month, but they will not be enough to visit every village and town in the kingdom, not even a whole year would be; is your search really hopeless, doomed to fail even before you actually undertake it?

💑 You return the book to one of the librarians, and on your way out you pass next to the desk of one of the scribes, busy copying the invitations for the festival; they are an acquaintance of yours, so you stop to chat for a brief moment... and your eye is caught by the sheets of parchment on the desk - specifically, by the intricate symbol at the top of each of them.

💑 "(name)? Is something the matter?" the scribe asks, seeing you go pale in the face. You force yourself to nod and "What is this?" you ask, taking one of the sheets and pointing to the symbol; you cannot be mistaken, it is exactly the glyph that you are by now used to carry on your skin, proof of a bond you are intimately sure you will never have the chance to experience "Did you draw it? Did you... see it somewhere?" The scribe explains that they and their colleagues were specifically told to copy that symbol on each of the invitations for the festival, even though they have no idea what it means; it is probably just a seal that their overseer uses in his personal correspondence.

💑 He. "And... your overseer is...?", you ask, your heart in your throat. "It is Elrond, the King's herald. He offered to oversee the writing of the invitations himself; he insisted on signing each of them, and asked us to add that symbol on the top of each sheet, and made sure we could copy it properly. I really do not know why; he is the least self-important person I know. He was here until five minutes ago, but I think he was called to the gardens by the King... (name), wait! Where are you going? Give it back, please, I need to make eighty more copies already..."

💑 You barely listen to them as you run out of the library as if you had a balrog on your tail, clutching a copy of the invitation, with the glyph on top and Elrond's signature at the bottom, your heart beating so fast in your chest it hurts.

💑 Elrond. You felt discouraged thinking your soulmate might live at the other side of the kingdom, and instead, his rooms are less than thirty fathoms from yours! It is true that he is not formally part of the kingdom's army, but how could you not even consider him as you mentally listed all the male Elves you knew who had taken part in the battle but you had never touched until then? You spoke to him two days before leaving for the front!

💑 You keep calling yourself an idiot until you finally reach the gardens, where the King likes to spend some time when the weather is good. Sure enough, you soon spot Elrond, talking to Gil-Galad as the two unhurriedly walk next to a line of beautiful rose brushes, the fruit -or rather the flower?- of the efforts of the palace's gardeners. You wait anxiously for a while, hoping the King will soon dismiss his herald and at the same time fearing the moment you will be face to face with him. You have no need to talk to him to make sure of what you already know for sure in your heart; Elrond had the scribes add the glyph to each of the invitations together with his signature to let every single warrior in the kingdom, including his soulmate, know he was looking for them. A clever stratagem, but superfluous all the same, and there is no need to send those invitations, because you are there already, you are his soulmate, and he is yours, and the thought to face him, even though you have known each other for decades, makes your legs tremble...

💑 What will he think when he discovers you are his soulmate? Will he be happy, surprised, or disappointed? Will he think you are too different in character and personality to get along as more than acquaintances? Whatever it is going to be, you will find out now, because Elrond has been dismissed by the King, and is now walking away to return to the palace... which brings him face to face with you, silently standing next to a bench.

💑 "Good afternoon, (name), how are you?" he pleasantly greets you, but the friendly smile on his face quickly disappears as he realizes how upset you look... and then he sees you wordlessly unfold the sheet of parchment in your hands. He stops when he is a step away from you; for a whole minute neither of you utters a word.

💑 "It is you." "Yes. It is me." you needlessly confirm, and the emotion filling your heart is finally close to overflow. You are not magically falling in love with him in the space of a second, like some swear happens to couples who become aware of their bond or meet for the first time, but you look at Elrond, and maybe you are just letting yourself get carried away, but you feel as if you were finally able to breathe after having held your breath for so long, or if you finally met someone you had missed without even knowing of their existence. You feel ready to cry, but you are happy; half of you wants to run away, as far and fast as you can, and the other wants to experience that moment to the fullest, like a goblet of fine wine... or a kiss.

💑 In the end you do cry, which is something you have always hated to do in front of other people, but Elrond does not seem inclined to judge you, especially because he seems as moved as you are; spontaneously, without any embarrassment, you embrace each other, Elrond's arms holding you by the waist as you rest your cheek against his shoulder. You both weep, and hold each other, experiencing that moment which is overwhelming in its sweetness, joyous and terryfing at the same time.

💑 "I must first of all thank you for saving my life." Elrond says in the end; he quietly proposed to talk as you walked in the gardens, an offer you happily accepted "Were it not for you, I would not be here now." "Which makes me even happier to have been there when you needed me; there is no need for thanks." you sincerely answer "So... we are soulmates. Is it... strange, for you?"

💑 Elrond admits it was unexpected, but not because, he quickly adds, he finds the idea of the two of you together absurd; he is... flattered, actually, and happy. He thinks you are beautiful, and there are so many things he likes about you... and he hopes you are not disappointed either, finding out he is your match. "Absolutely not; I think you are very handsome, and I have always thought highly of you." you quickly reassure him; normally you would not have been able to compliment someone so brazenly without blushing furiously, but Elrond is different... you feel at ease next to him, as if you were old friends and not just good acquaintances. It is nice; it is beautiful, and he is as well, with his sweet smile and his luminous and expressive eyes "I was just... afraid. And I still am, to be honest. Elrond... you are an herald, I am a warrior; I have dedicated my life to martial arts and the defense of my kingdom, while you are a cultured Elf, a diplomat, a scholar. Do you think we can... get along, even though we are as different as day and night?"

💑 It is painful to express your fear, especially while you are enjoying Elrond's company more than you have ever done, but you want him to know, because you feel -and what an unpleasant sensation it is!- that if you discover you have too little in common to work as a couple after you have spent time together and you had the opportunity to develop an affection to him, it will break your heart; it that is destined to happen, it is best to break things immediately.

💑 Elrond does not dismiss your fears, nor does he tries to reassure you as if you were a child, which you appreciate; he reflects for a while as you walk, alone for the first time in your lives as the sun bathes the garden in the golden light of the midmorning. "No one can foresee what the future holds for us, especially when feelings are concerned; it does not matter how carefully we make plans, I doubt it might help us avoid future complications or disagreements." he softly points out in the end "And being similar in temperament, occupation or interests does not necessarily ensure harmony. If anything, I wager I would find it incredibly boring to live side by side with someone who thinks, feels and acts exactly as I do; we would have nothing to learn from each other, and it would be equal to spend time by ourselves."

💑 "I think the same." "Ah, not a good start." Elrond states, making you laugh. "But you are right. I do not want to think we have so little in common we cannot even find something to talk about or to do together, and that does not mean we could not fall... develop feelings from each other, does it? My parents have different opinions and tastes about many things, but they learnt to love that about each other, and to make their differences balance them out. I just... I never though I would be able to do the same, and not for lack of will; or that I would find someone ready to do it for me."

💑 Elrond keeps silent for a moment; then he stops, and he turns, and he gently offers you his hand to take, and when you do you feel your eyes filling with tears again, but the feeling is much clearer and more definite than the one that wracked your heart a few minutes ago: a sweet, comforting joy, the certainty to be safe, and that whatever danger or problem you will meet, you will not have to face it alone.

💑 "I am sorry, maybe I am being too... too forward." you stammer, intimidated by his gaze, so deep, piercing and wise; you have never cowed in fear on the battlefield, but being close to Elrond makes you feel... small, vulnerable, as if your emotions were as visible as the words on the pages of a book. You must admit, it is quite pleasant "And we should get to know each other before discussing about the future..." "No." Elrond quickly stops you; he moves to face you once more, and he takes your hand in both of his; you can feel the warmth and the generous, comforting light emanating from his person, and this is when you start loving him, even though just platonically - for now "(name), I... I do not know what will happen in the future, but one thing I am sure of: you are brave, loyal, generous... Any Elf, any creature in Arda would be blessed to earn your love, and if that Elf ended up being... me... well, I do not think I would ever want for anything else."

💑 "I do not deserve all of this, Elrond." you answer in a whisper; you are forced to, because the emotion has choked your voice, and there is so little you know about him, but suddenly you know that whatever you may discover in the future, the good and even the bad, will be marvelous "I... I do not know if I will ever fall in love with you, this is not something you can force..."

💑 He reassures you, saying that since fortunately no law forces two soulmates to marry or even to begin courting, you can do things in your own time, learn to know each other and unhurriedly decide whether to part and never speak again, remain friends... or else. You can begin by spending some time together... maybe with a ride, that night? And then dinner? You think it is a splendid idea, and happily agree, and a beautiful, relieved smile appears on Elrond's mouth.

💑 You need both to return to your duties, but just as you are about to say goodbye to each other, Elrond's expression turns serious. "I know it goes against everything we just agreed, but there is something important you must know, even before we decide if we can be friends." he explains, so serious it scares you; what terrible secret is he about to reveal? "I am a Half-Elf. I am immortal, as you are, but that means that if I ever have children, they will also have to make a choice, and..."

💑 "I understand. And... I am fine with it." you reassure him; the idea to see your children pass away, even now that their very existance is only a remote possibility, is a terrible prospect, but you do not want to let fear decide for you "We agreed to do things in our own time, so... I think I should also leave my children the freedom to live their life as they want, whatever the consequences. Do you wish for children, Elrond?" "I think I do. Some day." he answers, and you both smile, as you unknowingly try to imagine what a child born from the two of you would look like. It would be nice, you think, if they inherited Elrond's smile, and his warm eyes. You feel happy, and hopeful, and excited, and all thanks to the handsome, kind Elf in front of you. "Then... until tonight, Elrond."

💑 "Until tonight, (name)." he answers; he takes your hand once more, and when his lips brush against the back, you feel a jolt of warmth spread through your body. Your gaze meets Elrond's, his smile revealing how aware he is of the effect he has on you "I look forward to it."

TAGGING @starlady66 and @elvenenby .

#The Lord of the Rings #The Lord of the Rings: The Rings of Power #The Rings of Power #Rings of Power #Elrond #Elrond Peredhel #Herald Elrond #Elrond x reader #Robert Aramayo #Bellona's stuff

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actual-bill-potts · 11 months

Text

Talking with the Hobbits who had come to live on Tol Eressëa, Finrod found, was often a delight, always interesting, occasionally discomfiting.

Take for instance his fairly mild assertion that the noble cabbage, as a vegetable, could be improved upon. He was met with twin glares so fierce he was surprised he didn’t burn to ash then and there, and had to surreptitiously check his hair for burnt ends. Then he was plied with recipes that prominently featured cabbage, and not allowed to speak on any other subject until he had meekly promised to try at least five separate dishes which the Hobbits promised to prepare with their own hands.

So he had that to look forward to.

But they were very wise in the way mortals were wise, practiced in the art of letting go, embracing the joy of impermanence. Sitting with them, hearing the histories and legends of their people, was a rare pleasure; and hearing the tales of his own people from their mouths brought new meaning to the old, old words. The Tale of Fingon and Maedhros, for instance, was not tainted for them by knowledge of future horrors. It was simply a love story. Bilbo had written a poem about it; and when he recited it in his quavering voice, Finrod was moved to tears twice over: in admiration for a love that had - however briefly - conquered all evil, and for his cousins who had been so long dead.

When Bilbo came to the end of the poem, Frodo let out a long sigh. “I love that story,” he said in his light high voice. “It was my favorite when I was a tween.”

Bilbo looked at him in surprise. “It was? You never mentioned.”

A tinge of color touched Frodo’s cheeks. “No, well, I suppose I wouldn’t have at that,” he said. “It took several years after I had passed my majority for me to admit why I loved the story so much - and by then you were off in Rivendell, bothering Elrond with your impudent poetry no doubt!”

“Impudent!” said Bilbo laughing. “Well, perhaps; but he never said a word about it. That was all his stuffy advisors; and Estel of course - but he teased me for everything. Talk of impudence! I could not remark on the sun’s rising but he must say his piece about how Hobbits are so near the ground they must see the dawn well before Men and Elves, or some such rot.”

Finrod joined them in laughter. “Who was Estel?” he asked curiously. “He sounds very like Elros. For all his majesty, he could not resist offering me a step-stool whenever I greeted him, that I might look him in the eye - and I was a mere hand-span shorter than him! He took far too much delight in being taller than an Elda.”

Bilbo chuckled. “You’re more right than you know, lad; Estel is none other than Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, your - I suppose he would be grand-nephew-in-law? - and King of Gondor and Arnor in Middle-earth.”

“Really?” Finrod said in surprise. “Why was he called Estel?”

Bilbo blinked. “Has Elrond not told you?”

“I doubt Elrond has wished to speak of those days much, while the grief is so near,” Frodo said gently.

Bilbo nodded. “True enough; well then, I will tell the story,” and he told the tale of how Arathorn son of Arador had been cruelly slain when his son Aragorn was yet young, and all that followed. Some of it Finrod had heard from Elrond, and others who had come from Rivendell; but other parts of the story, such as Gilraen’s words to Elrond, were new and moved him greatly.

“High is the valor of the Edain!” he said when Bilbo had finished speaking. “They have proven it in every Age; and the Edenith no less than the Edain.”

“Yes,” said Bilbo dryly, “there are many poems to that effect, I believe. I have even composed one myself - if you count Eärendil as a Man, of course. Accounts differ.” He turned to Frodo. “But you, my lad, have not yet explained why you loved the Tale of Fingon and Maedhros so much!”

Frodo met his eyes. “Can you not guess, Uncle?”

Bilbo held his gaze for a moment; then he chuckled. “I suppose I can, at that! What a very eligible bachelor you were, for far too many years. Ah, I am sorry, Nephew.”

Frodo laughed; then sighed. “No need to apologize! How were you to know, when I did not see it myself for so long? In any case, it would not have made a difference. The Ring took all of that from me. Perhaps it was better that I was not encouraged -” he stopped. “Well! Never mind.” He looked over at Finrod. “I am sorry, Zir; we are getting into personal matters. I will leave off the reminiscing, and we will talk of happier things.”

(That was another thing that delighted Finrod about the Hobbits: they had given him another name! They called him Zir, the Wise - or so he was assured - in their own tongue. “We cannot let the Men and Dwarves get ahead of us,” Bilbo had said, upon being introduced to Finrod, “may I call you Zir? That way you can complete the set, and be called wise in every tongue.”

“Besides, he is at least twice the size of our Samwise,” Frodo had added, laughing; and although Finrod did not quite understand the connection between Samwise and Zir he was too delighted by the name to inquire further.)

But his friend was not laughing now. Finrod said gently, “You need not, if your heart is troubled. I am happy to listen.”

“Well - perhaps not now,” Frodo said, glancing slightly at his uncle; and Finrod nodded. He did not wish to grieve the old Hobbit; and he turned the conversation down happier paths with the ease of one who had once sat between Elu Thingol and Angrod at table.

But later, when he was getting up to leave, he looked into Frodo’s eyes which were so sad and tired for all their wisdom, and said on impulse, “Frodo, would you like to look at the stars with me for awhile? And Bilbo too, of course,” he added, for politeness’ sake; but Bilbo looked at the both of them from under his white brows and said, “I am too old for such Elvish nonsense! You go on, and I shall stay beside my cozy fire,” and if his eyes were full of rue they were also laughing in the way of mortals.

Finrod offered his arm to Frodo; and they went out through the little gate and settled upon a bench. Frodo tipped his head back and gazed at the Valacirca, face solemn. There were not yet many threads of silver in his hair; but the stars caught the edges of his curls and crowned him with such light that he could have been silhouetted against the vessel of Tilion.

Finrod sat quietly beside him, feeling the stars kiss his own forehead; and after a moment Frodo spoke.

“I have come into the uttermost West,” he said, “and I have been healed in body; but not even the Valar can remove the touch of the Shadow.”

“Yes,” said Finrod sadly. “If they could, much evil might have been undone.”

“Or not!” Frodo said. “Perhaps greater evil might have come from such absolute power. Or so I tell myself, anyway.”

Finrod nodded; then he asked, “Was it frowned upon, to be - as you were - in your homeland?”

Frodo laughed a little. “To look upon lads with desire, rather than lasses? It was not frowned upon, exactly; but it was not mentioned in polite company either. I was considered strange enough already without adding to my list of peculiarities!”

Puzzled, Finrod asked, “Why should you be considered strange?”

Frodo looked at him, seeming a little bemused. “You do not hesitate to place your finger on the center of a sore, do you?”

“I am sorry!” Finrod exclaimed. “I have been scolded for that since before the Sun rose; and yet I continue to - “ he paused - “put my nose where it is not wanted, as I am told they say in the Shire.”

Frodo chuckled. “It is quite alright! I was mostly teasing you; you are extraordinarily blunt for one of the Eldar.”

“I am told it is very charming,” said Finrod, hoping it was true.

“Well - perhaps! But anyway, you might as well ask why I was not considered odd; the list would be shorter. I was an orphan, and raised mostly by the Brandybucks - who are quite the wild family - and then by Bilbo, who was an eccentric old bachelor who loved to tell stories and was rumored to have bags upon bags of gold in his hobbit-hole.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Finrod said sincerely. “It is difficult to lose a parent.”

“Thank you!” said Frodo. “I miss them every day, though I have not seen them since I was a faunt; my mother loved poetry, though she did not often write it, and my father loved to listen to her - or so I am told…but I am losing the thread. Scholars and scribes are not looked upon with particular favor in the Shire; and I was both! Besides which, I went on far too many walks, and did not eat enough, and was rather sickly as a child.”

Finrod blinked at the list. “Your homeland sounds a bit peculiar,” he remarked.

“Peculiar you might say; close-minded is another word,” said Frodo, “or simple, even. But I loved it all the same.”

“I can understand that,” said Finrod, thinking of the foolish Elves who had once dueled in the streets of Tirion in the days before the Darkening, and how he had mourned its shining walls and soaring towers for so long.

“Sauron got his hands on it before the end,” Frodo continued, “or rather Saruman did; and much of its innocence is gone, and with it a great deal of the prejudice that has long plagued it. I am - not sure I prefer it so. I had rather be laughed at, than treated so gravely; muttered about than reverenced; particularly so when I did not do much to deserve it.”

“Did you not?” said Finrod, thinking of a laita te, laita te at the end of Frodo of the Nine Fingers - for Galadriel had given him the music at once.

“I bore the Ring of Sauron,” said Frodo, “for eighteen years. Perhaps the greatest claim to heroics I have is that for seventeen of those years, while the Ring only stirred in its sleep, I behaved - decently. But the Lay does not sing of that!” He sighed. “It was wholly evil. It sought only to dominate, to grasp and whatever it might lay hands on. My hands. I thought - for so long, I thought - I am terribly depraved, I am wicked, I must be careful - I could not see a lovely lad, or even a lass, without wanting to devour them whole, I could not catch the glint of coin without thinking that ought to be mine: and I did not give in, but the evil seeped in anyway. So you see I did not really win.”

“I don’t see how you didn’t,” said Finrod; but only half his mind was on his words. The rest was thinking, in horrified fascination, of what it must have been to hold Sauron’s soul close for seventeen years. How had Frodo not gone mad?

Frodo must have seen some of what passed in his thought, for he said, “My - friends were always there. They lifted me up; reminded me what it was to laugh. Without them I would have been lost. Merry, and Pippin, and above all Sam.”

Finrod was silent; and after a moment Frodo continued, “It was almost a relief, when I was stabbed upon Weathertop; for I felt the chill of Sauron’s hand on me and it was familiar. The evil had not come from me, after all - or at least not wholly.

“And yet, with all this experience - wise by experience, my name means - I looked upon the Ring of Sauron, there in the wasteland that was Mordor, and I desired it. I still do; and its shadow lies upon my heart. I lost so utterly that there could be no recovery. Yet it is of this moment that the bards sing.”

Finrod said, “I know a little of having one’s greatest failure memorialized in song; but I cannot see failure in your actions. It seems to me,” he continued, “that a great violation was visited upon you, and that despite this terrible wound you traveled to the Dread Lands; and that by daring to set your strength against an Enemy who could have crushed you with a thought you won the freedom of all peoples. No Fingolfin are you, with mighty Ringil! Yet you came to the Black Gates nonetheless.”

He was a little in awe. Seventeen years! Of course Sauron had not been at his full strength then; but Finrod had spent only a month in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth and he had been weary and sick at heart when he arrived in the Halls. And Sauron had not brought his full strength to bear against him anyway, after that one moment when their Songs clashed and Sauron’s had proven the greater.

Frodo had looked up sharply when Finrod began to speak. He said, “A failure! You would consider your part in the Lay of Leithian a failure?”

“My part,” said Finrod, observing the Lay with an academic eye, “narratively speaking, is to represent someone who died in chains. A fine contrast to Beren and Lúthien, no doubt!”

“You broke your chains,” Frodo pointed out.

“Ah! The shackles of immortality; those are what remained. It is even mentioned in the Lay, I believe; Finrod walks with his father Finarfin…well, I do! I cannot deny it! And in doing so, I am the anti-Lúthien: the one who did not break his chains after all.”

“Is that how you interpret it?” Frodo exclaimed. His academic nature was clearly getting the better of him. “I have always thought that you were free, at the end: free of your Oath, and the literal chains that bound you.” Then he blushed. “I am sorry! It is easy to forget that the Lay is not only a legend! It is not right to speak so.”

Finrod was slightly amused, and deeply touched. “That is very kind of you! But I do not mind it; King Felagund, who lived under the hills, is long gone. He belongs to the singers and the poets. I remember my friends Beren and Lúthien, who were young and kind; and I am glad they are loved by so many.”

“That is very strange to me!” Frodo said, “I cannot quite regard my own Lay with that kind of detached interest.”

“Yours was not written two Ages ago,” said Finrod, thinking of the first time he had heard Release from Bondage. It had - hurt. He had been glad for the chance to accord Beren and Lúthien honor; but would have happily cut himself out of the song altogether.

He grew serious. “But it was a failure. If you wish to see what true failure looks like, Cormacolindo, look to the Lay! My people rejected me; then I set my strength against Gorthaur, there in the tower I had built, and lost; if I broke free, it was too late to save any but Beren; and I - I died with my hands yet bound.”

Frodo’s face was filled with compassion; and his gaze was far away. “Sauron’s strength is great,” he whispered, “and his will is all in dominion.” Then he seemed to come back to himself. “You know,” he said, meeting Finrod’s gaze now, “I thought of you often in the Black Lands. I did not know you, of course; but I thought of the golden Elven-king who had battled Sauron and fell. It was a - comfort, of sorts. If I fell to the Ring at last, I would be in illustrious company. And then I did; it took me, body and soul.”

Finrod felt something approaching rage fill him at the thought of Sauron laying a hand on this mortal, who was so frail and small. Then Frodo smiled, seeming to catch the thought. Those bottomless eyes glinted; and as through a glass inverted, Finrod saw a strength of will so fierce and indomitable it took his breath away. Defeated this one had been at the last; but he had not come to the fight unarmed.

Frodo looked away, up to the stars again. “I still long for it,” he said quietly. “I gave up the world for it once, and I know in my heart that if it were before me again my hand would reach out, whether by my will or no. The Shadow is on me.”

“That may be,” said Finrod, “but it was not your fault that you were - violated in such a way. I know a little of such,” he added very softly.

Frodo shrugged. “My fault or no, I will carry it until I die. But the burden is perhaps lighter shared.”

His eyes were tired; they reflected the stars. He smiled suddenly. “I thank you, you who have been named Nóm by Men, Angolodh by Elves, Zir by Hobbits! My heart becomes merry in your company.”

“I am glad,” said Finrod, “for mine is certainly in yours! I am told this is a common side effect of Hobbits!”

Frodo laughed. “Gandalf did not tell you that, surely? He is of the opinion that we are the primary cause of head-aches in Middle-earth, I believe.”

“No,” said Finrod smiling, “it was Elrond. He is quite fond of you.”

“He is quite fond of Bilbo, you mean,” said Frodo. “I cannot imagine why!”

“Can you not?” said Finrod, amused. “Elrond is quite fond of ingrates, I have noticed.”

Frodo swung around in shock, grinning. “Why, Zir, that was quite unkind of you! An insult worthy of a Hobbit Common-room! I had not imagined you had it in you.”

“I am full of surprises,” said Finrod. “You ought to invite me over for tea more often.”

“I think I will!” said Frodo. He rose slowly. “And now I think I had better get to bed. The stars cannot sustain me as they do you - to my everlasting regret!”

Hobbit and Elf parted at the gate, Frodo to bed and Finrod to the winding path down the hill. He took the path to the shoreline, seeing as he did so the light of Eärendil shining upon the ocean.

He was singing as he walked.

#silm fic #my fic #finrod #frodo #bilbo

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tar-maitime · 3 months

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roots of my tree

Rating: T Characters: Fingon | Findekano, Maedhros | Maitimo Relationships: Maedhros/Fingon, fem!Maedhros/Fingon Additional: Formenos era, Romance, Elopement WC: 3k

Maitimë ducks into the treeline, finally out of the sight of anyone at Formenos, and breathes a sigh of relief when she sees Findekáno there waiting for her.

His face splits into a smile like sunshine when he sees her. “Russë, you made it! I was starting to worry.”

She darts forward to hug him tightly. “Of course I made it; it’s been far too long since I’ve seen you. I was starting to go made up here without you.”

He hugs her back, pressing his face into her shoulder, and then pulls back just enough to kiss her. She’s missed that, too.

“Tell me about Tirion,” she says eventually, when they’ve pulled away long enough to curl up together at the base of a tree. His head leans on her shoulder, and she rests her cheek on his hair. “What’s been going on, since the last you told me?”

“Not a lot, lately,” Findekáno admits. “Politically, things have mostly gone back to normal, now that it’s been a while since the...incident and everyone’s adjusted to having a new king. Everyone else, at least; I’m still not used to it.”

Maitimë hums in response. One heated argument in the immediate aftermath notwithstanding, she and Findekáno have made their peace on this front. It helps that, though she would never say so, she suspects that Nolofinwë might, just possibly, be the better king, and that her father wants the day-to-day governance duties of the crown less than he wants what it represents, not the least of which is his own father’s highest love that everyone else already knows he has.

“People are still worried about Melkor,” Findekáno continues, “but they’re trying to worry very quietly. Nobody wants to believe something could actually go truly wrong.”

Maitimë is silent for a moment, and then, “Atar has been talking more lately about leaving here and crossing back to Endórë.”

That gets Findekáno’s attention, making him sit up sharply. “He wouldn’t really, though,” he says, not with much conviction.

“I think he would,” Maitimë says, letting her unhappiness with this state of affairs show like she can’t in Formenos.

“Now, though?” Findekáno presses. “When no one knows where Melkor is? It would be more dangerous than ever.”

Maitimë signs. “Atar...does not trust the Valar to keep us safe here,” she says quietly. Then, “I wouldn’t truly mind the danger, and I think the rest might even be an interesting challenge. But...”

“What?”

“If Atar takes us across the Sea, you and I could be separated, if you weren’t able to find a way to come along somehow,” Maitimë says, not looking at him. “If we left suddenly enough, there might not even be the chance to say goodbye.”

Findekáno sucks in a breath as he considers this. “But you’ve got some kind of plan for if that happens, right? Or you will soon?” he asks.

“I...not yet.” Maitimë grimaces. “I’ve been thinking about it, but everything I think of has too many things that could go wrong.”

Findekáno hesitates. “Russë...don’t take this the wrong way...but could you just not go with them if it came to it?”

Maitimë bites her lip hard. “Maybe. It would be possible. But then I would never see any of them again, Finno.” As much as she may have wished to have space from her brothers in the past, the thought of being sundered from them forever, especially Káno, cuts at her. She would do it if it were the only way to not lose Findekáno, but it would be hard and terrible.

Because he knows her, he knows this, and doesn’t press. They’ve already talked about the other side of the coin, him leaving his family. He maintains that his father would take the family across the Sea with the right motivation, such as the need to follow his eldest son. Maitimë, on the other hand, knows there is nothing at all that would keep her father in Aman if he were to decide to leave.

“There is one other thing we could do,” Findekáno says suddenly, with the tone and expression Maitimë recognizes to mean that he’s just had some mad and daring idea. “We could get married.”

Maitimë nearly chokes on air, even as a swell of deep wanting sweeps through her.She has dreamed of such a thing for years, and to hear it mentioned so casually and as such an immediate thing...! But she still feels compelled to point out, “We might not have time. With the betrothal and the rings and organizing everything - and that’s assuming they’d let us --”

“Russë,” Findekáno says, cutting her off gently with a hand cupping her jaw. “We don’t need any of that to get married. Under any other circumstances, I would love to, because you deserve it all, but like you said, we probably don’t have time. And if we elope...our fëar will be linked, Russë. You can let me know if you’re about to leave suddenly and I’ll come.”

That makes Maitimë pause. It’s a good point. Ordinary ósanwë only has so much range, even for the most powerful, and they already know it won’t stretch from Tirion to Formenos. But a marriage bond...that would do it. Even so, “I don’t want to marry you just for a practical reason,” she says slowly. “That’s not fair to either of us.”

“It’s not,” Findekáno agrees. “But neither is any of this. Believe me, Russë, I want to do every tradition, every ceremony, to show all of Eldalië what you mean to me. But more than that, I want ot not wake up one morning and find you’ve gone across the Sea without me.”

“I don’t want that either,” Maitimë assures. A moment later, “Would we keep it secret? Would we even be able to, with the bond showing in our eyes?” Even as she speaks, she realizes she’s talking as if they’ve settled on the actual idea of eloping, and now only need to work out the details.

This is exactly how she and Findekáno used to get into trouble as children in Tirion: he would have a mad idea, she would inevitably start planning out how they would actually do it, and they would take turns sweet-talking themselves out of the ire of the adults.

“I can get away with not making prolonged eye contact for a little while, at least, before anyone notices,” Findekáno says thoughtfully. “And I’ll try to make excuses to get out of the city altogether when I can - I already have been, to see you. It can’t be that long before your father makes his move, if he’s going to.”

Maitimë nods. “I think I can make it work. The ones most likely to find out are my brothers, and I can probably make them keep quiet if I have to.” Except for Curufinwë, but he doesn’t meet her eyes much anyway. “And if it does come out...”

“Then we can start making the case for you to bring me along to Endórë,” Findekáno finishes. “It works out either way.”

Maitimë takes a deep breath. “I suppose that just leaves where and when.”

Findekáno looks up thoughtfully. “How easy to you suppose it would be to sneak into your bedroom window between the Mingling and Telperion waxing?”

Maitimë considers the house, and considers the feats she’s seen Findekáno pull off. “It would be tricky,” she says eventually, “but I think you could do it. The stonework and vines on that part of the house are climbable enough. I got back in that way once, when I’d stayed away too late with you, and you’re a better climber than I am.”

Findekáno nods. “Then maybe tonight?” he says. “Before I have to go back to Tirion. I can sneak in and...”

“And,” Maitimë agrees. Her mind is already running through weddings she’s attended, sorting out which parts are necessary, which parts are extra but can be done in some fashion quietly in her room, just the two of them, and which parts they’ll have to dispense with. She shifts to kiss Findekáno lightly. “In that case, I’d better head back now. The less suspicion I draw now, the more we’ll be able to get away with later.”

Findekáno kisses her back and then lets her go, his smile blinding. “I’ll see you then, Russë,” he promises, and then she has to tear herself away and hurry back to Formenos.

She needs to get ready.

- - -

Findekáno hauls himself up the last few feet, grabs the windowsill, and scrambles up and into Russandol’s room. His breath catches.

The room itself isn’t that different from what he saw of Russandol’s room in Tirion: neat, organized, decorated with red and gold hangings and carefully drawn maps. But Russandol is standing in the middle of it, waiting for him in the glow of a few lightstones, her hair unbraided and falling to her waist, seeming to glow faintly herself in white robes. Findekáno, who has spent the day traveling and then lurking in the woods, feels rather underprepared by contrast, not to mention a mess.

“Russë,” he breathes. Then, brushing ineffectually at his clothes. “I’m not...can I...there’s probably no way for me to sneak around and bathe without getting caught--”

“I don’t mind,” she says, then at a look from him, “I can fetch a few things. If you want.”

Five minutes with a basin of water and some soap and a rag behind Russandol’s changing screen isn’t ideal and doesn’t feel like nearly enough, but it helps somewhat, and gives him a chance to collect himself. He’s going to marry Russandol. Tonight. Right now. It’s rushed and furtive and not what they ought to have, but maybe when things are calmer they can do a full ceremony for everyone else. For now, they’ll work with what they have.

He brushes off his robes one more time, runs a hand over his braids, and emerges from behind the screen. “So how are we doing this?” he asks. “I know you have a plan.”

Turukáno likes to tell him smugly sometimes that someday he’ll do something reckless and foolish and Russandol won’t be there with her strategies and plans to back him up. But that day isn’t today, from the way she squares her shoulders.

“The only things we need for an official marriage are for us to both make a vow in the name of the One, and...join our bodies.” She glances away from him at the last part, color rising along her cheekbones. “Obviously our parents aren’t involved, so we might want to do the invoking of Manwë and Varda ourselves, just in case. And about rings...”

“I’m going to give you a ring,” Findekáno declares. In between rounds of pacing in the woods, he’d worked out exactly which of the rings he was wearing would do, and blessed whoever had first made it fashionable among the Noldor to wear so very much jewelry at all times. He pulls at the gold ring engraved with a pattern of maple leaves on his little finger. “You don’t have to if you’d rather not...”

Russandol fumbles with something on her desk. “No, I mean, I picked one to give to you.” She holds out her hand, revealing a gold ring etched with stars - surprisingly, not all eight-pointed. “It’s yours if you want it.”

“How could I not,” Findekáno says fervently, and takes the ring from her so he can press his own into her palm. “I can get you a better one than that later if you want, one that’s made for you...”

“This is perfect,” Russandol insists. She slides the ring onto the fourth finger of her right hand, where it fits exactly. Findekáno hastens to do the same with his new one. Then he takes a deep breath and steps forward to take Russandol’s hands in his.

“You’d better start,” he says, his mouth dry. “You’re older; that’s how it works, right?”

Russandol nods and clears her throat. “I, Nelyafinwë Maitimë Fëanáriel, called Russandol,” she says quietly, “do hereby pledge myself body and soul to Findekáno Astaldo Nolofinwion. This swear I: love I will give him all our days, faith unto world’s end. My word hear thou, Eru Ilúvatar! On the holy mountain hear in witness and my vow remember, Manwë and Varda!”

Findekáno’s pulse is pounding in his ears. He takes a second to make sure he can breathe, and then begins. “I, Findekáno Astaldo Nolofinwion, do hereby pledge myself body and soul to Nelyafinwë Maitimë Fëanáriel, my Russandol. This swear I: love I will give her all our days, faith unto world’s end. My word hear thou, Eru Ilúvatar! On the holy mountain hear in witness and my vow remember, Manwë and Varda!”

He swears he can feel Russandol’s spirit blaze out from her, and she looks at him as though he’s shining like the Trees.

She moves, or he does, and then they’re kissing, slowly at first and then with greater fervor and fierceness. He’s felt Russë’s spirit close to the surface before in moments like this, but now he swears he can feel her like a fire in the back of his mind, nearer than ever.

He wants more, wants to not know where either of them begins or ends. In the morning, he has to go back to Tirion, without her, and be separated for who knows how long. But it’s not morning yet, and they can make the most of the time they have now.

Maybe it’s a growing sense of Russandol’s thoughts, or maybe it’s just her hands starting to run up under his shirt, but he knows she is thinking the same way.

- - -

Maitimë wakes up warm, with the feeling of starlight in the back of her mind.

She shifts, and discovers that the warmth is from a body curled against hers. Her eyes fly open, revealing Findekáno beside and partially under her - she’d ended up laying her head on his chest. His heartbeat thuds steadily in her ear, pulsing slowly in time with the starlight in her mind.

Memory comes flooding in, along with her body reminding her of some particular details. She comes awake more fully, wonder and joy expanding in her chest. Findekáno is married to her. They’re married. No one can ever take them away from each other now.

He shifts, and then blinks awake, and she can both see and feel the moment of confusion as to where he is before he remembers fully and the starlight in her mind flares jubilantly.

Russë my Russë my wife, she hears him think, and it’s too much; she has to kiss the smile off his lips.

He kisses back warmly, and when they break apart his fingers keep running through her hair.

“Good morning,” he says with a grin.

The best morning, Maitimë thinks, and knows when he’s picked up on the thought by the way he lights up.

Best of all mornings so far, he thinks back. Then, aloud, “How much time do we have? I want to braid your hair.”

Maitimë nestles against him, turning her head to give him slightly better, if crooked, access. “Mm. Braid away.”

“I want to braid it,” Findekáno continues, “and then make a mess of it, even more than last night, until it all comes loose again, until my braids start to come undone and you have to help me redo them, and then I’ll do your hair again, something beautiful, something you couldn’t have possibly done yourself, to make everyone wonder.”

Maitimë shifts to peer up at him. “That sounds like it could take all morning. Longer.”

“That was the idea--”

A rapid knocking at the door cuts him off. “Nelyë? Are you up?” Makalaurë calls out. “Breakfast is going to be soon. Is everything all right?”

Maitimë freezes, simultaneously startled and intensely grateful that at least Makalaurë has the decency to not just barge into her room. “I just overslept, Káno,” she calls back. “I’ll be down in a moment. No need to worry.”

She hears his footsteps retreat, and huffs out a sign, letting her head fall back against the pillow. “I suppose that means our time is up,” she mutters.

Findekáno hums reluctant agreement. “I would hide up here to wait for you, but...”

“But you need to get back to Tirion,” Maitimë says. Beside her, Findekáno sits up, stroking a hand back and forth over her shoulder. She feels the metallic smoothness of the ring against her skin.

“I’ll sneak back as soon as I can,” he promises. “And we have the bond now; we can’t truly be separated. It’ll be all right, Russë.”

She nods glumly, and watches as he gets up and starts hunting for his clothes. A few moments later, she makes herself get up and start getting ready for the day as well.

Someday, she thinks, they’ll be able to do this at the beginning of a day they get to actually spend together, out in the open.

Findekáno’s braids are still intact, but once Maitimë has brushed out her hair he quickly plaits half of it into a crown. When it’s done, she turns into his arms and they hold each other silently for a moment.

Then, reluctantly, they pull away, with one more quick kiss between them, and he backs towards the windowsill. It’s already a while past the Mingling; she only hopes he can make it out without being spotted.

“Goodbye, Finno,” she murmurs.

“Not goodbye really,” he counters, tapping his temple. “Just - I’ll see you before long, Russë.”

“See you,” Maitimë echoes, and then he’s over the edge of the windowsill and gone.

She waits for a moment or two, missing him already. Then she straightens her back and turns to head downstairs, starlight glowing comfortingly in the back of her mind.

#silmarillion #maedhros #fingon #female maedhros #russingon #roots of my tree #my stories #something soft this time

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animatorweirdo · 1 year

Text

Imagine being a pirate in Middle Earth

(Anon I’m so sorry. From my lack of creativity, I made up dumb scenarios with quotes I cherry picked from youtube. I do have one serious so I hope you like this dumpster fire)

Requested by Anonymous

Warnings: Pretty much none on the first part. Only Amrod is gonna have rough time. Most is jack sparrow like but the last one is Barbossa.

---------------------------------------------------

-What happens when you pick up a washed-up pirate from a beach? Nothing good, especially if that pirate’s last name is Sparrow. The feanorians learned that the hard way with all the nonsense you caused when you woke up.

Maedhros

*How you first met*

You: So, let me get this straight. You start murdering our kin, stole their boats, abandoned your other kin who helped you murder our other kin, then proceeded to burn to the boats which might had not burned your youngest brother alive?

Maedhros: Uhm

You: Wow, and people tell me I’m stupid. Do you have any idea what you did when you burned those boats?

Maedhros: I know it was wrong, but it was my father’s orders.

You: Well, your father was an idiot because all the peaceful bonds and treaties you wished to have here on Middle Earth are not gonna happen because burning those ships marked you as the enemy of the Eldar and the sea. They’re protected by an honor code even we the pirates follow. So, what you technically did is that you told everyone you’re a bunch of orcs.

Maedhros: … shit.

You: Heh, how odd that we, the so-called foul pirates, have more honor than you.

*You helping him and Fingon escape Angband with unimaginable means*

Maedhros: This is either madness or brilliance

You: It's remarkable how often those two traits coincide

*You about his hand*

You: Don’t be sad about it. You can now have a hook you can poke eyes with. Did you know there are sea creatures such as starfish that can grow their limbs back?

Maedhros: …

Maglor

*Maglor talking about something*

You: You know, your singing is good as a siren’s. It’s gonna kill me if it doesn’t shut up.

*When he’s having a rough time*

You: Close your eyes and pretend it's a bad dream. That's how I get by.

Celegorm

*While in Nargothrtond*

You: Elf, Your dog has more honor than you and knows how to be a gentleman, unlike you. Which reminds me?

You: *Kneel in front of Huan, holding his paw*

You: Would you like to join my crew, mate?

Huan: *Barks*

Celegorm: What? You can’t just ask my dog to be a pirate.

You: And you can’t just force a princess to stay in the tower like a prisoner and force her to marry you, especially when she said no.

Celegorm: …

*When the silmaril quest was over*

Celegorm: That didn’t end well. Hey, where’s Huan?!

You and Huan: * Standing on a ship. Huan wearing a hat and an eye patch, holding a knife in his mouth*

Huan: *Staring with a judgy look* Arhhhg

Curufin

*When you kept him prisoner after attacking Luthien*

Curufin: Hey, you can’t just leave me here tied up!

You:*walking away* You'll broke free moments ago. You have just been waiting for a chance to jump me.

You: *Turning around to block his attack*

You: See

*Talking about saving and stuff*

You: If it ever came to that I would have to choose either you, your brother, or the dog. I'll take the dog.

Caranthir

*When arguing something later and succeeding now*

Caranthir: You actually were telling the truth.

You: I do that quite a lot yet people are always surprised.

*When Caranthir did something to the rum*

You: Why is the rum gone?!

Mairon

*When saving Beren and Finrod*

You: Me, I'm dishonest. And a dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest. Honestly, it's the honest ones you want to watch out for because you can never predict when they're going to do something incredibly ---stupid.

Melkor

*When you got a jar of dirt*

You: Look what I got. I got a jar of dirt! I got a jar of dirt and guess what's inside it!

*When you make an escape*

You: "You'll always remember this is the day that you almost caught --- Captain (Name) Sparrow!" *Makes an epic escape*

Amrod

-He had jumped off into the sea when his family had set the boats on fire. He tried to scream for them to stop and tell them he was there, but they did not hear him. He had nowhere else to run, so he had to jump through the fire into the water.

-He suffered terrible burns, which burned and stung harder than any blade. The pain was deep and agonizing, making it nearly impossible for him to stay on the surface, and when he tried to swim toward the land, the current suddenly swept him away.

-He panicked when the land became more distant from his reach, and he didn’t have any energy to swim.

-He was on the brink of drowning. He kicked his feet as hard as possible, but it only fastened his energy loss, and he was submerged under the water.

-He thought it was the end for him as his lungs began to fill with water, making him feel even further pain before they became numb.

-His mind nearly fell into darkness till he heard something heavy, and something suddenly yanked him out of the water.

-He was thrown against a stern deck, and water gushed out of his lungs, making him cough and slough over the floor. His lungs gasped for air, and his mind awakened back to reality.

-He was frightened when he saw his rescues. They were elves yet looked vicious and wore clothing no ordinary sailors wore during their journeys. It didn’t help when they sneered down on him, calling him a burned-wet rat and an orc.

-He took a quick look around the ship, which was ten times bigger than the ships his family used to sail across the sea. The mast stood tall, carrying haunting black sails, and there were round metal constructs that looked like weapons of sorts.

-His attention was brought back when his rescuers pushed him in a sneering tone. Amrod thought about all the stories he heard as an elfling about the sea and knew from them that he was dealing with pirates– real pirates.

-They demanded to know if he was part of the burning of the swan ships since he possessed red hair. He didn’t dare the answer till they forcefully picked him up and took him to what seemed to be a captain’s cabin.

-They pushed through the door, and there you sat, feeding a strange four feet creature with a long tail that screeched at him.

-Your crew members talked about their suspicions about him to you, and you calmly listened and looked at him.

-Amrod tried to hold up a calm face, but even though you were an elf, there was something strange and eerie about you.

-You spoke softly to him, asking if he was hurting and if he would like to have a warm change of clothes. Amrod didn’t know how to answer– he felt reluctant even though the burns on his body were hurting.

-You softly smiled at him and asked your crew members to bandage him up and give him dry clothes so you could have a proper discussion later.

-Amrod felt hesitant, but when his wounds were treated and he got out of wet clothes and given time to rest, his body shut down from exhaustion. And he was glad just to have some rest even though he was on a pirate ship.

-He felt odd the next time he woke up. The crew still treated him suspiciously, and when you invited him for dinner, he didn’t dare to refuse, so he accepted.

-You spoke softly to him, letting him eat first. You apologized for the rough treatment and explained about the swan ships.

-It was a prominent rule in the sea to never attack swan ships for they were considered neutral and were your kin. Attacking and burning swan-resembling ships will mark an orc or an enemy, so you stayed around when you saw several swan ships burning at the shore.

-You discovered the heinous act was done by a group of elves, so you and your crew had been agitated by the news.

-You asked if he knew about it, and Amrod hesitated, knowing what might come if he told you what he and his family had done to get the swan ships. He didn’t know why they were burned, but having heard such a sacred rule. He knew he wasn’t in a good situation.

-Amrod decided to play ignorant, but he tensed when he saw you look at him strangely like you knew he wasn’t telling the truth. Your monkey only hissed at him.

-You then started telling him a little story about you and your crew. How you sailed around the sea and resisted the orcs from the shore. How you found a treasure and how there was a curse of death and lies.

-You told him how lying was a bad habit and how many end up as the victim of their own consequences before you offed him an apple.

-Amrod acted out of his brashness, taking a knife and striking you in the chest. You staggered back, taking out the knife, looking unaffected. Amrod paled at his mistake and how you didn’t seem to bleed.

-” I’m curious. After killing me, what was it that you planned on doing next?” You held the bloodied knife, looking at him with a sinister grin.

-Amrod tried to leave, but when he got outside. He was faced with the crew, who looked like walking corpses, screeching at him and doing their chores under Tillion’s light.

-He was struck with terror. He had never seen anything so horrifying in his life. He tried to hide, but even your monkey was a walking corpse, screeching out of his hiding place.

-You grabbed him and made him look at your crew.

-You explained to him the curse that made you undead and how the moonlight showed your true form before making him look at you.

-You told him how long you have been unable to quench your thirst and starved yourself, unable to die. You told him how felt nothing and showed your arm, which turned dead and rotten under the moon. Amrod backed away in fright.

-” You better start believing in ghost stories, little elf,” You said, showing your true form, which was a rotten skeleton. “You’re in one!” You said.

-Amrod watched in horror when you opened a bottle of rum, drinking it which flowed through your bones and withered clothes.

-Amrod ran inside, and you mashed the bottle while closing the door, laughing with your crew. Amrod was hiding in a corner, holding his knees and hoping the nightmare would end soon.

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youareunbearable · 2 years

Text

I've been rereading Here Be Dragons by thorinoakentwig and I've been daydreaming of the concept of Maedhros (after his death and being sent to the void) begging for redemption, if not for himself then at least for his brothers and father for failing to complete the oath. Eru listens to him and grants him his wish, allowing his family to rest in Mando’s halls instead of the void. Feanor is furious, not for being upstaged or whatever, but at the idea of his son suffering for him, more than he already has

(Fingon got to see a glimpse of red hair that burned like molten lava in the Halls before Maedhros was taken again. He closed his eyes for just a moment to feel and settle his grief before moving into action once again)

As per their agreement, Maedhros must save a life for every one he and his kin have ruined, however, he is not sent back as an Elf, but instead is reborn again and again in the form of Men and Dwarves and Hobbits with their mortal lifespans and limitations. He struggles with each rebirth to remember the last one, for mortal memories are so flawed compared to those of the Elves, but he gets the sensation of deja vu often and has strange dreams, and knows he has a Purpose.

But no matter the life he lives, he always has brilliant red hair, his eyes are always light in colour if not grey, he is always tall for his race, and at some point in his life he will loose a hand. Its not always in response to the Enemy- one lifetime he was whittling a toy horse and cut his palm, which became so infected that it had to be amputated.

He goes around helping people, as a doctor, a smith, a teacher, but more often than not he feels at home with a blade in his hand and the burden of responsibility for a people on his shoulders. He has led armies, villages, bands of mercenaries, counciled lords and ladies, and on one occasion commanded a ship full of Men. He never knows why he has such a drive to help people, why helping makes him feel so guilty, why he has nightmares of dark shadows and pain and three brilliant lights, why the chill of winter makes him feel safe, why he's always wanted a large family yet never once in all his reincarnation has had any desire to marry.

That is, until one day when he is reborn as a Man by the name of Doegred, he is take to the sea side by his parents as a gift for his 6th birthday. He looks west and is filled with such a profound longing that when asked whats wrong, he points towards the setting sun and says "i used to live there. I miss my home." As the sun sets, and as his parents digest the strange statement of their son, a voice comes floating by on the wind.

Its melodic, but melancholic in such a profound way that it moves all those that hear it to tears. Young Doegred tears away from his parents and races down the sand towards the vpice, red hair snapping behind him like licks of flame. Once his parents catch up to him, they are met with a strange scene.

An Elf, for no other being is as tall or looks as beautiful even in such a neglected state, is knelt on the shore, weeping and clutching their son to him as if he is afraid he'll vanish if he lets go. Doegred, for all that is worth, is making calming soothing croons while patting the matted hair of the Elf. He looks up at his parents, and with a glint in his blue eyes that almost makes them look grey, says "this is my younger brother. I left him behind once and I dont plan on doing so again."

(When they go home, it is with a much cleaner elf named Maglor in tow and much confused acceptance as two exasperated parents of a strange child can bare.)

Maglor stays in their village for a time, helping Doegred help others, until the Man becomes 18 and is leaving home for an adventure. He takes Maglor with him to the Elven city of Eregion, where they meet with the Elven lord there and much tears are shed. Doegred slowly begins to remember his past lives, reliving moments in dreams and second hand from tales told by Maglor and Celebrimbor. They in turn start to learn the full details of his agreement with Eru, of the burden he placed on his shoulders for his kin.

He helps his former nephew with the more political side of running his city, and tries his best to ignore the reverent whispering of the Feanorian Elves. Celebrimbor, not wanting to the news of his guests to spread, shuts his city's gates to outsiders and turns away a slightly peeved Maia in the process.

Doegred ages, as all Men do and it isn't long by Elven standards that he is once again on his deathbed and soon ready to start life once again, to have another turn at penance for he and his family- even if he still does not fully remember them. When Doegred closes his eyes for the last time a city wails at loss, and scouting parties are sent out in search of a red haired babe.

A red dawn breaks with a hobbit babe opening grey eyes for the first time. Black smog forms from the mountains in the southeast. War is the horizon. And a boat sailing from the west comes with two passengers bearing ill tidings and offering support against the growing Evil.

One has hair of spun golden silk, the other with braids of thick ebony ropes. One carries a sword and a flag with a golden flower. The other has only a harp and a bow.

Within the safety of Gladden Fields, the new Hobbit mother adorns her baby's swaddle with a golden ribbon. It seems like it will bring good luck

#maedhros #maglor #Silmarillion #lotr #silm fic #amber rambles #getting this out before it haunts me more lmao #technically Maedhros penance is done by the end of the second age and throughout the 3rd some of his siblings can leave the halls #but Mae is still Guilty and just keeps being reborn #i also think it would be fun if mae is reborn as gimlis older brother #legolas asking gimli to marry him just fucking SWEATING cause the reincarnated Kinslayer is staring him down from waist height #with the OTHER Kinslayer adding a supporting glare behind him with Celebrimbor teasing Thranduil off to the side #elrond is just happy to have some family members back #gloin has come to terms with the fact that elves are just gonna be around his kids #feanor is SEETHING in the halls about having to share Dad status with a bunch of otber ppl #What If He Has A Dad Ranking List And Im Not In The Top 10????#Nerdanel is aldo upset about having to share mom status but also appreciates the help lmao

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dialux · 1 year

Note

Yeah also the name of the spear, Aeglos, is a also the name of a flower that only grows a little to the South of Finduilas’s grave!

-@outofangband

Okay fine, twist my arm why don’t you

...

When Gil-galad is still young, his parents pack up his things and send him to foster with the High King of the Noldor in Beleriand. He doesn’t question this, not even to complain or ask when he’ll see them again. But Gil-galad does ask his father, once, the night before he is to leave: “What should I say I got from my parents, if someone asks?”

And Orodreth smiles, and Orodreth says, gently, “Do you know the tale of Ilion and Taqualme?”

It is not quite so well-told now as the story of Melian and Thingol or Finwe and Miriel, but Gil-galad has studied under the finest tutors his parents could find in war-torn Beleriand. Of course he knows the story of Ilion and Taqualme: Taqualme, who was captured by Sauron in the days that Sauron dwelled in Utumno, and fled by the skin of her teeth; Ilion who found her and loved her. They went on to marshal an army that besieged Utumno itself well before the Valar ever found the Firstborn. Their son was Ingwe, who was named the King of Kings in blessed Valinor. Gil-galad is himself their descendant through his father’s father’s mother’s mother.

“Good,” says Orodreth, when Gil-galad nods. “When Ingwe was born, Taqualme saw him crowned in gold. That is why she named him as she did. But when you were born... Legrin saw that you were crowned in stars, little one.”

Gil-galad is young, but he is not stupid. He knows who he is: the eldest son, perhaps, but the eldest son of a youngest son; there is a reason why his father rules over a tower and not larger tracts of land like Aegnor and Angrod or Finrod. Finrod might call himself a king but he is king solely by dint of having fled from Fingolfin’s proximity. There will be no crowns for Gil-galad’s head unless everyone else is dead.

“Is that why you are sending me away?” he asks slowly.

Orodreth’s face tightens. “Would you prefer to stay here? You can, you know. If you wish. Your future is your own, no matter what your mother has seen.”

“When I die,” says Gil-galad thoughtfully, “I want them to sing songs of my glory. Do you think I can get that if I- if I stay here?”

For a long moment, Orodreth says nothing. Then-

“If that is what you wish,” he says, “you should go.”

...

And so, Gil-galad goes.

...

He spends a few years at Fingolfin’s court, but he isn’t of Fingolfin’s ilk; Gil-galad just plain doesn’t like him. They are both too dignified to fight regardless of Gil-galad’s youth, but the reality is that he just plain doesn’t agree with most of Fingolfin’s decisions, chafes against Fingolfin’s authority, and is in the process of losing what few vestiges of respect he has left for Fingolfin as a person.

Fingon’s arrival at court is a welcome relief from the constant and simmering tension. He takes Gil-galad on long hunts and shrugs off any of his father’s criticisms without much care. It’s startling, actually, how careless Fingon seems to be: a deliberate contrast to his father, perhaps, and a dangerous one for it. Gil-galad likes him better than Fingolfin though. He doesn’t go around acting like explaining decisions is beneath him.

...

When Gil-galad is very young, his mother takes him and Finduilas to a small meadow. This stands out in his memory later: Legrin had never been a very maternal figure, nor someone with much time to expend on her young children. But she’d taken the time to bring them to a meadow, some distance from Minas Tirith, and to sit next to a rushing stream, and to sing blossoms out of summer-wilted grass.

“A little north of here, it grows tall and sturdy,” she’d said. Her fingers had been long and slender, deftly weaving the branches together into something like a wreath. “When winter comes the leaves fall away and leave behind thick vines and tough roots. Aeglos is very difficult to kill; we often have to sing it out of the way, for it will dull even sharpened steel if we try to chop it up.” She leans down and feathers a hand against Gil-galad’s cheeks. “And it saved my life, time and time over, before I found your father.”

Finduilas had laughed and braided the small white flowers into her hair. Gil-galad’s had not been long enough yet to braid; his mother had placed a crown of the aeglos’ branches and flowers atop his head.

He forgets a lot- too much- of the time he spent with his parents and sister, but this he remembers well: Finduilas’ laughter, and the prick of the thorns of aeglos plant on his scalp. He’d fallen asleep still wearing it and woke to blood drenching his pillow.

...

“My father is very careful,” says Fingon. The wind is high in his cheeks. His eyes are very bright. Gil-galad determinedly does not think on how similar Fingon looks to his father or how similar Gil-galad himself looks to them both: they’re the same eyes, same coloring, the same general facial structure. If Gil-galad becomes a little broader... he’d be their spitting image. “You are right that he is that- perhaps he is too much so! But you won’t get him to change his mind by constantly pointing it out.”

And suddenly Gil-galad dislikes Fingon too.

“I never said he was too careful,” says Gil-galad, and he isn’t sulking, he isn’t. “I said he took the wrong risks.”

“Kingship is gambling. And sometimes losing.”

“Yeah,” says Gil-galad. “But there needs to be some winning in there too, shouldn’t there?”

Fingon stares at him. “You think you could do better,” he says, and it isn’t a question.

Gil-galad lifts his chin. “Don’t you?” he asks, and doesn’t mean it as a question either.

...

For decades and decades, when Gil-galad thinks of his sister, he thinks of that meadow: the crown of thorns, the blood in his hair; her laughter, shining like the gold of her braids.

...

Fingon convinces Fingolfin to send Gil-galad down to the Falas for one summer- to explore Gil-galad’s mother’s heritage, he says, and laughs after he says it like he thinks it’s all a big joke: for all that Gil-galad knows it isn’t. But then the Dagor Bragollach happens and everyone is very glad that Gil-galad is so far from the front lines of the war. Aegnor and Angrod die, but Minas Tirith itself holds firm against the onslaught from Anfauglith, mostly because of Legrin’s strength of will and Orodreth’s strength of song. Of Fingolfin’s death none of them speak, but everyone knows already; Gil-galad mourns for him, of course, but only very distantly, and it’s far outweighed by his surprise. He’d never have thought Fingolfin had it in him. When the news came, he asked if the message had mixed up Fingon with his father, but the stories hadn’t changed; it was Fingolfin who attacked Morgoth himself in single duel, and Fingon the Valiant of all people that survived him.

Then Legrin dies, and Orodreth flees south with the remnants of his people.

Gil-galad feels the shattered bond in his soul. He’s on a boat; he’s threading the white rapids of Eglarest’s estuary for the first time alone. It’s incredibly dangerous; two elves lost their lives just two years previous in their attempt. Gil-galad only just managed to convince Cirdan to let him do this. If he backs down now...

It’s the first time he’s experienced the harsh twisting rend of his fea. It’s a pain without explanation. Gil-galad closes his eyes against the hollowing howling scream thudding through his chest. Then he opens them, because he cannot keep the tears at bay. Better to let everyone think it comes from the sting of sea-air and the exertion of sailing a boat through choppy waters. Everything is very numb; the roar of the water seems very distant.

Still, Gil-galad manages to complete it. He steps off the boat to loud cheers from the pier, having successfully navigated through the white rapids without losing his life. He nods, ducks his head; accepts one person’s exuberant handshake. Then he heads to Cirdan’s seneschal to alert him that he’ll miss tonight’s dinner due to a Noldor ritual performed at the waning gibbous moon, and after that he goes to his tutor to tell him that Cirdan’s asked him for dinner tonight and so he won’t be able to make it to their ritual, and only once all of this is completed does he go to his room and lock the door and close his eyes once again.

Legrin had never been very soft or caring. She’d lost much of her family in orc raids just before Melian established her girdle, surviving herself by sheer chance: she’d been on the right side of the border.

Or the wrong side, depending on how you defined it.

She’d watched her family die in front of her, and then she’d walked out herself, furious enough to wage a one-woman war against Morgoth for decades until the Noldor searched the region. Orodreth had been assigned to scout for orcs in the area and kept finding nothing, which meant the entire army was on high alert for a trap. Then they found Legrin amid a nest of sharp-spiked aeglos, single-handedly having defended the Pass of Sirion for nearly half a decade.

Finrod and Orodreth offered to build a tower in the area to better defend Sirion. Legrin had agreed, and she’d wedded Orodreth the day the tower’s construction was completed. When Orodreth had wanted to wait for peace to have children, she’d told him firmly that there would never be peace again: only joy, for whatever time they could steal away. Finduilas was first, and Gil-galad many years later. And she’d dreamed, when she held her son, that he would be crowned in stars.

The only crown he has is made of thorns.

So. Gil-galad had never been close with her, but that was because Legrin was like the tide pools in the Falas: flashing and ephemeral; alternately, and unpredictably, vibrant with life and utterly desolate. Legrin wasn’t close to anyone. But she’d been his mother.

He still has the crown she placed on his head. The bottom thorns are dark with dried blood. The rest is desiccated and dry, a husk of something once full of life. Gil-galad hadn’t taken much with him when he left Minas Tirith, but this he took: to Barad Eithel, and then to Dor-lomin, and finally here, to the Falas. He doesn’t have much: some spare tunics, a few notebooks and sketches, three scarves of cotton, wool, and silk respectively, a gold-and-silver knife Finrod once gifted to him, and this crown.

It scratches his wrist when he picks it up. Gil-galad presses down, harder, and watches blood well on the smooth skin.

She’d been his mother, and her hands had woven this crown for him, and now she is dead.

The pain is exquisite. Gil-galad wears long sleeves for a fortnight, and doesn’t heal the wound.

...

Cirdan comes to him a week later, eyes red-rimmed. He doesn’t have to say anything, but he does: Gil-galad nods solemnly through the entire conversation, but doesn’t weep. His mother is dead. And he owes nobody else his grief.

People whisper on his cold certainty, on his lack of emotion. They all seem to be waiting for Gil-galad to crumble to his knees. But he’s done his grieving. One night of it, one ritual: a thorn pushed, inexorably deep and deeper, into the pale flesh of his arm, until he could breathe without wanting to weep.

Did you not feel the bond break, little one? Cirdan asks, on the pier, in front of everyone.

Gil-galad looks up at him, and says, No, and nobody, not a single person, realizes he’s lied.

...

His father wants him to come to Nargothrond, but Gil-galad refuses. He likes the freedom of life on Balar. The scent of salt in the air; the way the sand sticks to his calves; the sound of high tide outside his window. And Gil-galad doesn’t do well with kings, and it isn’t as if he could just leave Nargothrond either if push came to shove.

Instead, he asks if they can come to him.

It takes- years- of wheedling and demanding and flat-out blackmail, but eventually Orodreth relents to let Finduilas come south. He can’t make the trip himself because of his obligations as Finrod’s second-in-command, but Finduilas comes with her betrothed, Gwindor, and a few other guards, and Gil-galad has the joy of meeting his fully-grown sister for the very first time.

She is very pretty. She has Orodreth’s coloring and build, all tall and willowy with large eyes and hair that shines like a beacon under Arien’s light. The fashions of Nargothrond appear to be less restrictive than the practical dresses on the front line of the war, and Finduilas’ arms are covered by only the sheerest layers of chiffon that blows in the sea wind like Miriel Serinde’s own work. Gil-galad takes her around the beaches, feeds her all the sea-side delicacies Nargothrond and Minas Tirith wouldn’t have had access to, and gifts her a steel knife hilted with pieces of abalone he dug up himself.

“Are you- happy?” he asks once.

Finduilas ducks her head. “Yes,” she says. “I- of course I am. Gwindor... you’ve seen him. And Father is doing well too, now; I wasn’t certain how he’d take Mother’s death. But he got better. We all did.”

“Good.” Gil-galad swallows. Looks up, over the gorse bushes and scraggly grass, to the shine of the sun on the sea. “Do you know how she died?”

“You don’t know?”

“I felt it. Her death. I never wanted to- ask. Anyone else, that is.”

“Oh.” Finduilas’ hand rests on his wrist, warm and weighty. “They could never understand, could they?”

His eyes water from the brilliance of the sun off the water. Nothing else. Gil-galad thinks of Legrin’s temper, her cold silences and colder words when she disagreed with someone. Gil-galad knows well what all of Balar thinks of her: that she’d never had a bond with Gil-galad, that she’d been so distant and unloving he’d never even felt her death.

But Finduilas knows. Nobody else in the entire world will know what this wound feels like, but she does.

“No,” he says, soft.

Her hand tightens on his, nails digging in briefly before she gains control of herself once more. “She died in battle. Sauron himself killed her- she drew him out, and challenged him to a duel, her aeglos to his magics.”

“She was defeated.”

“She was killed,” says Finduilas, after a moment. “But defeated? I think not.”

“How can you say that?”

“I am still alive, am I not?” She stretches out, arches her back like a cat. “And so was most of Minas Tirith. We should have died in it. That’s what Sauron intended. She saved us at the cost of her own life, but it was a good death.”

“The last time I saw her,” says Gil-galad, “she told me to be great. And then she rode away. And I’ll never see her again. I don’t- I can’t- move past that. Forgive that.”

“Mother never asked for your forgiveness. Or anyone’s!”

“But how can you live like that! After having children-”

He breaks off. Rises to his feet. Turns away. Something in his throat hurts, like he’s pierced it with the thorns his mother crowned him on.

“She did something great,” says Finduilas quietly. “I don’t know why you find it so difficult to forgive either.”

“Why not?”

“You’re so similar, Gil-galad,” she says. She is a vision in gold, everything gilt and glamour; Gwindor has gifted her with some powdered diamonds that she dusts on her cheekbones to glitter in the light. “You know best, and you- you’re so strong, and you’re so cold, too. You’re just like her.”

And- there’s nothing that he can say to that, is there?

Finduilas looks at him ruefully. “Though perhaps a little softer. You got the best parts of our parents, you know. Mother’s hard edges rounded out a little by Father.”

“Let me guess,” says Gil-galad scornfully- likely more scornfully than he meant to sound. “You got the worst parts. Father’s softness and Mother’s distance.”

“So you do have a temper.”

“I thought everyone knew that, after- Fingolfin.”

“Everyone knows,” says Finduilas. “But- it’s different to meet you, and to know it. You hide it well. All except for your contempt.”

“My- contempt?” asks Gil-galad, taken aback.

“You think you can do something well,” she says. “You think you’re very good at- everything. And you probably are; I know your competence! But you show it so clearly. I read your letters to Father, you know? It hurt him, what you said. How you said it, maybe. Quite a lot.”

“Is it my responsibility to coddle his feelings? I have no desire to go to Nargothrond- to be hemmed in, to be controlled and treated like a particularly amusing pet- not when I’m building something here.”

“Yes,” says Finduilas. “What is this project you’re doing here? Kingship? Is that what you want, really?”

“Now who’s being contemptuous?”

“Still you,” she snaps. “Because you know that if the crown comes to you it’ll be drenched in our kin’s blood. But you still want it!”

“Ambition is not a sin. And I’m not a kinslayer.”

“Is that why you won’t go to Nargothrond? Because of- Uncle Finrod? Or is it the Feanorians?”

“I won’t go to Nargothrond because Father won’t let me come back here if he sees me again,” says Gil-galad tiredly. “And I like Balar too well to leave for so petty a reason.”

For a moment, Finduilas says nothing. Then: "This is a crown that kills. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” says Gil-galad. “I know.”

"We'd want you to live rather than be storied. You know that, don't you?"

"Finduilas," sighs Gil-galad. "Yes. I know it."

“Mother saw you crowned with stars and named you for it. But the only crown she ever gave you was one of thorns.”

He jerks, a little surprised. “You remember that?”

“She used aeglos to save my life,” says Finduilas steadily. “But she killed you with it. That is what I remember.”

“It’ll take more than a prophecy to kill me.”

“You’ll die hard, but you’ll still die.”

“When I die,” says Gil-galad fiercely, “I want them to sing songs of my glory. That is what I want. That’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted.”

Finduilas looks at him, so bright it hurts his eyes, his fingers, his chest. She is so fragile. He wants to keep her here in the Falas, safe and sound and tucked into the hollow of his throat. Nargothrond will bury her alive. He can see it. He can see it.

“You are not just a Sindar,” she says finally. “You are Noldor too, born and bred. If you wish to be king, you will have to act like it.”

“What- what does that mean?”

“You will never wear the Sindarin crown,” says Finduilas. “But the Noldor one might come to you. Someday. And if it does, it will be because Hithlum fell, and so did Nargothrond, and if that happens then the Feanorian lands are likely besieged as well; you will be king of ash and ruin. That is the only way you will ever be able to rule. I do not say this as an insult. That is reality.”

“So. Be prepared. For the worst. That’s your advice.”

“Be a haven for those who need it,” she says. “That’s my advice.”

The sun has gone down by now; the sky is a glorious purplish-greenish-gold. Finduilas glows like a beacon even under it, with her diamond-burnished cheeks.

“Have you seen something?” asks Gil-galad.

“Only what my eyes will tell me. Have you seen something?”

“No,” says Gil-galad, and though Finduilas is closer to him than anyone else in all the world, she does not realize that he is lying to her either. “I don’t dream like that.”

...

Two days after Finduilas leaves, Gil-galad starts working on a staff. It is ash and fire-hardened hickory; his shoulders hurt from its use. But Gil-galad has no interest in hunting or jousting or scouting. If he’s on a battlefield, he’ll be on the field, not directing from above or hiding behind bowmen. So the bow is out. And the lance is a good weapon, but one meant for peacetime; he’ll learn it, he promises himself, if he survives Morgoth. A sword is traditional, but Fingolfin dueled Morgoth with a sword and had it shattered for his troubles.

Taqualme and Ilion, Orodreth had told Gil-galad. Taqualme’s daughter Intyale was the general of the Vanya armies after Ilion’s death, and she’d been a speardancer; she’d formed many of the fighting forms before her death. Her daughter was Indis, whose son was Finarfin, whose son was Orodreth: it’s quite a glorious history that Gil-galad is working with. Taqualme and Ilion.

So he starts with the staff. His shoulders obligingly grow broader. Gil-galad takes to looping furs over them to make them appear even broader, under guise of Beleriand’s growing chill.

Then he adds an arrowhead to it, and turns it into a spear,

...

Gil-galad’s father’s side is more gold and light, tall and pale and narrow like aspen. But Gil-galad takes after his mother’s side: never quite so tall as his father’s kin, and always darker: dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin.

When Legrin spoke, people paid attention. She was the kind of woman for whom a room went silent, who everyone gravitated around. Orodreth had loved her for it, even when he’d never been quite so- prolific.

Gil-galad: he takes, so very strongly, after his mother.

...

Please come visit me, he writes to Finduilas one night. I need you. I need you.

You will die if you stay there, he does not say. Nargothrond will be your grave. I have seen it- fire and death is written into your future, like a flower blooming into life: inexorable, inescapable. Escape to me. Please. I beg you-

Soon, maybe, she writes back in her lovely script. Once the roads are less dangerous...

Gil-galad laughs when he reads it, long and bitter. He’d promised himself he’d learn the lance once Morgoth was defeated- this feels even more impossible. The roads will never be safer. Morgoth will never be vanquished. He will reign over ash and death. He will die, and it will be a hard death, a well-fought death, but there will be no songs for him.

Not out of respect, like Fingolfin.

The silence that Gil-galad leaves behind will be the silence of death.

...

And then- the Union of Maedhros fails, and refugees pour south. Gil-galad flees the fall of the Falas to the Isle of Balar with Cirdan. He's called into many of the meetings about the relocating refugees and meets with Lalwen.

She looks eerily like her brother: tall and dark-haired, though she prefers to keep them in utilitarian and undecorated plaits while Fingolfin liked it loose. But the similarities with her brother stop there. Lalwen's unvarnished where Fingolfin had been diplomatic, and utterly uninterested in the minutiae of governance or administration where Fingolfin had lived and died by them. Gil-galad gets on much better with her than he ever did with either Fingolfin or Fingon.

It's a good thing, too. Gil-galad learns a hell of a lot more about ruling than he'd ever known before. Finduilas had never mentioned that being king of ash and ruin would require so much work, but he does it: serving the refugees, going on patrols, tracking the supplies. It’s hard and thankless and heartbreaking, but it's good work and soothes a part of him that had always wondered if all the confidence in Gil-galad's ability to rule had always been in his own head.

It’s while he’s there that soldiers stumble in from the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. They insist on meeting with Gil-galad, never mind that he's arbitrating a farming dispute between an elven and human farmer that was on the verge of spilling over into violence, never mind that they're still mud-splattered and half-dead from the long trek.

"Welcome to Sirion," says Gil-galad wearily. The sun's been too dull for good crops for years now, and the silty soil isn't exactly helping keep their food stores high. He's got a lot of worries on his mind, and people constantly interrupting him aren't exactly helping. "I hope my seneschal has assigned you some quarters... We don't have much, but you are welcome to rest here for a fortnight or settle longer. If you choose to remain, you will be assigned work; we have too few hands to manage otherwise."

The soldier with the gold epaulets- as compared to his fellows' silver- looks politely bewildered. Then he bows his head.

"Thank you, my lord," he says. "Master Erestor was very helpful. We came to you because we had something to offer to you."

Gil-galad's eyes narrow, but he takes the silk package the soldier profers, and carefully undoes the gold binding to reveal a ring of pale gold that shimmers with its own light, some eldritch charm left over from Valinor.

"It was High King Fingon's," says the soldier, when Gil-galad only stares blankly. "He claimed you as his heir, my lord. In the event of his demise, he wished for me and my companions to bring this to you as evidence."

"Fingon named me his heir?" asks Gil-galad incredulously. "Why?"

"I know not his opinions."

"Turgon still lives. The High Kingship is his."

"Presumably so. But we have not heard from Gondolin for many decades now, even if they came to the aid of the Union... and what use is a king who cannot rule over us?"

"A king is he that can hold his own," quotes Gil-galad.

Then he touches the ring. It is very delicate; the filigree is intricate and finely wrought. His hand suddenly feels very warm, like he's drenched it in a hot bath. Then it settles and leaves nothing behind: no light, nothing save for gold in such delicate whorls he worries he'll melt it if he slides it onto his finger.

"I am not High King," he says finally. "But it is an honor to be so chosen by my uncle. Please, I beg of you to rest and recover from your long journey. We shall meet after that."

The gold does not melt when he wears it. Under the harsh, pale light of late afternoon in Sirion, it gleams beautifully. Gil-galad touches the filigree again, briefly, and then gets back to work.

...

Being named Fingon's heir is unexpected, but not unwelcome. If nothing else, it gives Gil-galad the authority to match what power he'd seized from Lalwen's hands.

And as time passes the work gets harder, not less. More people, fewer supplies. Every winter feels like a race against death; every summer week without rain is a death knell tolling months in advance. Gil-galad has the numbers rotating in his head constantly: the people, the rations, the probability of survival. They're a knife balanced on the cusp of tipping into bloody slaughter, and Morgoth does not need to do anything to manage it. All he needs is to wait them out.

Between all of this, Gil-galad dispatches letters to his sister whenever he gets a spare moment. They're long and rambling, salt-splotched and hastily-scribbled, and Finduilas doesn't answer them all too often.

He'd thought it was because of the subpar quality of his own letters. He'd never once considered it was because of Finduilas.

Because Nargothrond is safe.

It must be. It- it must be. Finrod had poured himself into the stone. Orodreth had gone there to survive. The Feanorians still lived, too, and would not surrender. Nargothrond is safe.

Until it isn't.

Gil-galad feels the bond he has with his father- long gone dusty with disuse- suddenly wink out, abrupt and wrenching. He is in court: adjudicating on a weaver's desire to grow silkworms in cliff caves. Gil-galad chokes on nothing and then reaches for Finduilas with all his might.

She is screaming.

Gil-galad snatches up a letter next to his throne, rips it open and doesn't bother trying to read it- just surges to his feet.

"Gather your men," he snaps. "Every able adult should be armed. Put Sirion on lockdown- no one in or out. Bring everyone into the inner keep."

The weaver pales, one hand touching a ragged scar on her neck. The rest of the court is silent and staring.

"Nargothrond has fallen," says Gil-galad grimly, indicating the letter as if that's where he received his news. "If it is another Bragollach, we will not surrender toothlessly. Get moving."

That, at least, is enough to knock everyone out of their shock. Gil-galad stalks out of the room and into his own antechamber, which is nothing more than a glorified closet. He sheds the ornamental cloak and greaves in favor of practical armor. His head hurts faintly; the backlash of the bond with his father.

But there is nothing he can do. Gil-galad is too far from Nargothrond. Perhaps Finduilas will survive, perhaps she will not; Gil-galad cannot help her. All he can do is wait for her to come to him.

So. Ten minutes to grieve. That's all he allows himself before straightening up and stalking out of the room.

Sirion is very busy. People are hustling back and forth purposefully. The stores of spears and javelins are rapidly disappearing into citizens' hands. Gil-galad can hear guards shouting for people to form up ranks; others are assigning shifts for a variety of duties. It all seems to be going relatively smoothly, but there will need to be someone who makes the bigger decisions sooner rather than later.

That's Gil-galad.

He snatches up an abandoned flagon of ale and drains half of it- For courage, he tells himself wryly- and steps into his council room, and throws himself into ensuring Sirion will survive, and if not that, will at least give Morgoth a bitter fight.

...

Orodreth's death had been mercifully swift.

Finduilas' is not.

...

Gil-galad alternates between trying to comfort her- bare and scarce though it may be- and marshaling Sirion. It quickly becomes clear that Morgoth meant to attack Nargothrond alone; there aren't any rivers of fire or torrents of animals pouring down from the north. A quick letter to Doriath confirms their strength too, despite the fallen Girdle.

So Gil-galad takes the Havens off the war-footing to focus instead on preparing for refugees. The first weeks don't bring too many, but then there are enough that Sirion's numbers double, then triple.

Among them is Celebrimbor Curufinwion.

He is much taller than Gil-galad, with a smith's broad frame and shorn hair. Handsome eyes and a sharp jaw, bruised though it is; Gil-galad can see how he'd be unfairly attractive if given even a candlemark to clean up. He's corralled the largest group of Nargothrond refugees to reach Sirion thus far, and held them together with what looks like spit and prayer.

Of everyone who has arrived, Celebrimbor has the best claim to leadership.

Gil-galad knows this. In his darker moments, he'd wanted Celebrimbor to die either in Nargothrond or on the way from it, just to simplify the question of who would rule over Sirion. But Gil-galad is young, and Celebrimbor is a valuable resource. Gil-galad knows this, too, and he's fairly certain Celebrimbor's aware of it as well.

Celebrimbor kneels. "Nargothrond has fallen to Morgoth's tricks and treachery, my lord. In the days before it fell, Prince Orodreth- who inherited the kingship from his brother, King Finrod- wished for Turin Turambar, son of Hurin and Lord of Dor-Cuarthol, to wed your beloved sister and so inherit the throne. But Princess Finduilas was stolen before any such wedding could occur."

And Gil-galad knew none of this. Not of Finduilas' betrothal- the last he heard, she'd been madly in love with Gwindor, and none of her letters had ever suggested otherwise- nor his father's preference for a human over his own son to rule over Nargothrond.

He breathes in. Breathes out.

"My sister is not dead," says Gil-galad. "Of that, if nothing else, I am certain."

Celebrimbor nods grimly, but reveals a golden armband, set to clasp just below Gil-galad's shoulder. "Even so, we have need of a king. It would be our honor to name you ours, Prince Gil-galad."

"It would be my honor to accept," says Gil-galad carefully. "But I would not ask you to make such a decision in such haste either."

"It will not change."

And Celebrimbor's mind probably won't. The Feanorians are nothing if not famously stubborn. If he's the one trying to crown Gil-galad...

Gil-galad sighs. "Then I accept," he says, and receives the armband with a steady hand.

The moment he touches the gold, something stabs him through the gut: a fatal wound, but not immediate. Gil-galad gasps and then straightens, arrow-sharp. Nods at everyone. Numbly, he clasps the band onto his arm, and strides to the stables, saddles his horse, and rides out.

My sister is not dead, he'd said, with such confidence.

But it'd been a lie.

Gil-galad comes to a stop and stumbles off the horse. Drops to his knees in a copse.

No. That isn't true. It hadn't been a lie, but it had been a miserable excuse of the truth. Finduilas is not dead, but she will die soon: Gil-galad can feel it. His stomach twists so badly he throws up from the force of it, but it doesn't help: the pain is still there. Finduilas is in no state to block herself off from him, and Gil-galad cannot imagine trying to block her off from him now. So. The pain. Split apart over half a continent, he can do nothing but bear witness.

Finduilas suffers and sobs and screams. Gil-galad does nothing. He will not hush her, and he cannot soothe her. She must know that he's there; it doesn't seem to be helping her much, but Gil-galad won't leave unless Finduilas demands it, and she doesn't ask it of him.

And then- slowly- the pain seems to lessen. Enough that Gil-galad feels it when Finduilas realizes, cold down to her bones, that she will die soon.

You once told me that Nargothrond would be my death, she whispers.

I didn't think... not like this.

But it will be.

I'm sorry I can't be there. It should have been me.

Oh, yes. She sounds faintly amused. You would have pulled the spear out of your own chest and stabbed some orcs with it, wouldn't you?

I'd get at least one of them.

You didn't know, says Finduilas firmly- or as firmly as she can get now. Do not blame yourself for my mistakes.

I have enough of my own, you mean? he asks humorlessly.

Finduilas doesn't take the bait. Rule my people well. Ereinion indeed! And this will not be the last of it.

Only if Sirion lasts longer than Gondolin or Doriath.

Of course it will. Aeglos... Mother crowned you with it. One day you'll be crowned with stars. But your first was with aeglos, and it is with the strength of its roots that you shall rule. You'll be an excellent king, little brother.

I don't want you to die, says Gil-galad.

It's more childish than he's been in- a very long time. Since he asked his father what he inherited from his parents, perhaps, which feels like it passed lifetimes ago.

I don't want to die either, says Finduilas wryly. But there's nothing to be done for it now... it's the end, dear one. Promise me one thing, if you can.

Anything.

Remember me.

I'll have them sing so many songs of you that the trees shake from it.

Finduilas laughs, and then makes a high-pitched sound as the pain spikes from the movement. No. Those songs... you know what they'll be like. Of my love, of my inconstancy; of my failure. She ignores Gil-galad's outrage. I have no need of songs, Gil-galad. I want you to remember me. Me. Of my temper, of my stubbornness; of my love, of my grief. Me, as I was when you knew me. There will be no other that can do the same in Beleriand.

Gil-galad swallows, and then swallows again. He remembers, briefly, something his mother had once done to him as a child: a trick with her fea to keep him quiet and content.

Of course, he says. You could have asked me for anything. This... I would have given so much more.

This is what I want.

Then let me do one more thing for you. Please.

There's nothing more you can do for me, little one. Let me go.

There is one last thing, says Gil-galad quietly. To let you go peacefully.

A long silence, and then Finduilas acquiesces. Swiftly- or as swiftly as he dares, for it isn't as if Gil-galad's done anything quite like this before- Gil-galad wraps his fea around his sister's. Let's the bond blossom outwards, until Finduilas feels nothing more than what he desires for her to feel. Mothers do this, often, for their children, easing elves into the rigors of the wider world, but Gil-galad is strong and bright, and comes from a long line of strong osanwe users.

He focuses on that day in the meadow. The weight of the crown on his head. Finduilas' laughter. His mother's arms, warm and soft as they wrapped around him, stronger than anything in the entire world.

Oh, little brother, sighs Finduilas in her last breath. They will sing songs of you until the end of times. You need not die to hear them. Not... not when you are... as... great... as you are.

And then, there is nothing there any longer. Not pain, not silence. Just emptiness. So thick it sounds like a scream.

Gil-galad does scream, or so he thinks; his throat aches after. When he returns to himself the sun has nearly set and his palms are bloody.

He laughs when he realizes that he'd backed himself against an aeglos bush, wrapped around an oak tree. The thorns have drawn blood on his hands, little pinpricks that ache all over his palm and fingers.

Gritting his teeth, he swings himself back onto the horse. Digs through the packs to reveal leather gloves tucked in some corner, and slides them on, ignoring the pulling skin and ache.

Goodbye, Finduilas, he thinks.

He will remember her in his heart. But he owes nobody his mourning, and Gil-galad cannot afford to show his broken heart to the rest of Sirion. He is their prince before he is an elf; they must think him cool, untouchable, above them.

Gil-galad owes nobody his mourning, but he'll keep the scars on his hands until the day he dies.

Goodbye, sister, he thinks again, and then he rides back home.

...

It's not plain gold, though it looks that way from afar. Up close, the armband has a strange pattern scrolling across it; so faint it's nearly invisible. But it'd been the only piece of jewelry Celebrimbor left Nargothrond with that he knew to belong to Orodreth, and so it was automatically the only thing left of the King's Jewels.

Not that Gil-galad has much jewelry otherwise. Fingon's ring and his father's armband; Finrod's knife, his mother's crown. People keep trying to gift him pearls and such, and Gil-galad wears them on his wrists sometimes, but he's a Noldo at heart: true jewelry is forged underground, not underwater.

...

Doriath falls to the Feanorians after that, and Sirion's numbers swell once again, tripling even its Nargothrond-enhanced population. It also makes things uncomfortable for Gil-galad; the Sindar aren't comfortable kneeling to a Noldo king in the same way the people of Nargothrond were. Gil-galad still rules over the Havens personally- he's the final authority- but institutes a council after consulting with Cirdan, and ensures it's equally weighted with Noldor and Doriathrim.

Gil-galad grows closer to Elwing, too- she's a distant cousin through Thingol's brother Olwe, whose daughter Earwen is Gil-galad's long-lost grandmother- and it becomes clear that half the Doriathrim would prefer for him to wed the girl and thereby unite the Noldor and Sindar crowns. It's a half-decent proposal too, and, best of all, Elwing is so young she does not need to make the choice for many years yet.

Gil-galad has no compunctions about spending long evenings gathering mussels with the gawky girl, who's just learning how to use her limbs effectively. It's peaceful if nothing else.

And the council itself means Gil-galad spends a lot more time than he'd first anticipated with Celebrimbor and Galadriel. They're technically a half-cousin some measure removed and his aunt, but Celebrimbor has a treacherous path to tread as his father's son- particularly after the Second Kinslaying- and Galadriel has a narrow path to tread herself, as half a Noldo and a participant in both Kinslayings.

Half the time they all end up in Gil-galad's rooms, stuffed with seaweed stew and sea-salt studded bread, talking long into the night on things of note and not. It's the closest thing Gil-galad's ever had to a family, this disparate group of cousins so far afield it'd take longer to enumerate their true relation than to sing the Noldolante itself.

It's a good time, those short four years.

Then Gondolin falls.

...

Idril arrives in Sirion with a blast of warmth and oncoming spring. Sirion's population grows again, until there are almost even numbers of Sindar and Noldor. It's more than twenty times the population that had been there when Gil-galad first arrived. Protecting everyone by bringing them into the central keep isn't feasible any longer; it'll take too long, for one, and is nigh on impossible from a logistical perspective, for another. There just isn't enough space inside the walls.

Idril, however, cares nothing for such details. Half her people are grieving a loved one or on the verge of death themselves; Idril's Secondborn husband, Tuor, took ill on the last leg of their journey and none of their healing makes any difference. She alternates between sitting at his bedside and holding her son, who isn't allowed in the sickroom for fear of contracting the same disease.

So Gil-galad- kindly, but firmly- takes over the process of ensuring the Gondolithrim settle into Sirion.

He'd have preferred for Idril or another lord to be there to smooth it over, but it's becoming rapidly obvious that nobody is in a fit state to do such a task. Gil-galad keeps little Earendil distracted with shells and Elwing, who takes to him like a fish to water; they accompany him to almost all his meetings, and their quiet cheer lifts the miasma of grief surrounding Sirion at least a little.

Not that there's much else to be cheerful about.

The food stores are dwindling. They'd gotten lucky with Nargothrond and Doriath; both events occurred in the late fall, and while it had been a hard season of rationing, they'd had full stores and good hands available for the next spring. But the Gondolithrim arrived in late winter, almost spring: the most dangerous time of all. They've eaten most of their winter stores.

All Gil-galad has in his food stores are prayers at this point. He would've managed to stretch it a few weeks with rationing, but that was with the old population; now he has not even that assurance, and the prognosticators think the frost will remain for another month at least.

The emergency rations are half-empty. It'll take six weeks for the fish to return to Sirion. They can't plant anything until then, and even with song and strength, they'll have to let people starve. Balar can only help so much; Cirdan's island is much smaller than Sirion, and have already offered enough to stretch the stores another week.

He's poring over the sheets, desperately hoping for some kind of solution, when Galadriel storms into his study.

"Quarter rations?" she asks flatly.

Gil-galad grimaces back at her. "Have you spoken to the quartermaster recently?"

"They can't possibly be that low. We had a good harvest last year!"

"That was before the Gondolithrim arrived."

"Before the-" Galadriel grinds to a halt. "It is that bad, then, isn't it? Even quarter rations won't be enough."

"We might be able to push it another week with it," Gil-galad tells her. "And then it's a matter of waiting for spring."

"Which the best estimates tell us is a month off."

"We pray it isn't."

"Prayer," says Galadriel scathingly.

Gil-galad laughs a little. "If you've a better solution, I'd love to hear it."

Galadriel is silent as she studies the sheets. Gil-galad doesn't bother to do the same; he's seen the numbers enough that he dreams them in his sleep. It's one thing he likes about his aunt: she's willful and untamed, but only rarely thoughtless. He suspects she'd had more of the one than the other in Aman by the stories his father told of Artanis, but Gil-galad's own dealings with her have lent to an image of a proud, strong, and relentlessly practical lady.

But then she looks up, and her face is very pale, but her chin is set in the way it goes when she's made up her mind about something.

"People will die if we do nothing," she says.

Gil-galad lifts his brows. "Finduilas once told me, you know," he says casually, "that I'd be king of ash and ruin if I ever received the crown. This isn't a surprise."

"I wouldn't have thought her to be so- sensible."

"Because she loved Turin?"

"Because she was a sheltered girl," snaps Galadriel, straightening to her full- and staggering- height. "Everything she did was because she was protected, first by Legrin in Minas Tirith and then by my brother in Nargothrond. She never knew anything of pain, or hurt, or difficulty."

"She watched my mother die to save her," says Gil-galad mildly. "Just because she refused to take up arms herself doesn't make her sheltered."

Galadriel shoots him a sharp look. "I didn't know you were so close to her."

"We were the only children in Minas Tirith. Of course we were close then."

"And after?"

"We drifted apart," says Gil-galad. "And then she died. And that's all I'll say about that, if it's all the same to you. Thinking about my dead aren't going to make me feel better about watching more people die."

"Certainly not if you're all but ordering it," says Galadriel, shuddering a little. "How can you stand it? The responsibility?"

"I've never been able to bear another's yoke on my shoulders." He shrugs. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You wished to rule, or so my father's stories said. But when you came to Beleriand you stayed under Thingol, and now you aren't even trying to wrest power from me, though you've a strong claim to the crown."

"I don't need a crown to rule," says Galadriel coolly. "And I'm not quite so power-mad as my brothers liked to make out. They were the ones who made a kingdom for themselves, or demanded the most dangerous domain of them all. Your father was the only one of us who desired something more than power."

"And you?"

"I wanted to be... myself, I suppose. Separate from all of them."

"But you don't want their throne."

"Are you so frightened by me, little nephew?" Galadriel looks amused, now, instead of irritated. "No. I have no desire to rule a people that would spend their time questioning every last one of my decisions. And anyhow, you are their heir, are you not? Fingon's chosen, Finrod's lineage; inheritor of Lalwen's domain and Turgon's people. I will not take that from you. And you have done an admirable job of it, in these difficult times."

Gil-galad ducks his head and doesn't comment at all on the rush of relief in his gut. Galadriel would not understand, he thinks, and if she did his gratitude would only make things more complicated in the future.

"It is a hard job," he says in the end. "But I find myself uniquely suited to doing it, and it must be done. Even if it is thankless."

"Even if it means watching people die because of your decisions?" asks Galadriel quietly.

"I inherited the war," says Gil-galad. "Did you know that Father wanted me to stay back in Minas Tirith instead of going to Fingolfin? But I told him- I was so young, so very young, but I told him- When I die, I want them to sing songs of my glory. And he sent me away so I could get that."

Galadriel studies him for a long moment, utterly silent. The fire from the torches shadows her face oddly. "That must have hurt him very much," she says finally. "I questioned his desire to beget children in war, but I hadn't thought it would manifest like this. To say when, to be so certain, at so young an age..."

"There won't be any songs," says Gil-galad, half-impatient. He'd thought that Galadriel, of all people, would understand. "It's grim, I get that, but it's something to laugh about at the end. Everything I've done has been for this war. Everything I've been given was because everyone else died before they could receive it. So there won't be songs of my glory, because I'll be the one to live until Morgoth finally comes to Sirion: and then everyone will be dead, not just me. So. No songs."

"That," says Galadriel, staring, "is quite possibly the grimmest thing I've ever heard."

"Don't be ridiculous. I was just showing you that we'll lose a tenth of Sirion to starvation unless we get incredibly lucky. This is nothing."

"I can't bear this," snaps Galadriel, and turns on her heel, and stalks out.

Gil-galad stares at her back. Then he trots out after her- she can't go telling people this, it'll cause riots unless handled carefully, and Gil-galad isn't certain at all about Galadriel being reasonable when she's in this kind of mood- only to come to a halt when he realizes that Galadriel's gone stomping off towards the Doriathrim quarter.

If I wanted to incite a riot, I'd start there, he thinks, feeling a little sick. Then, cold and calm: But that doesn't mean I need to accept this.

Gil-galad doesn't want to escalate, but he is king here. He has to be. If this is some twisted test of his resolve or something, he'll deal with it; if it's Galadriel trying to institute mass rule in her own way he'll deal with that, too.

He turns on his heel and calls for the captain of his guard.

...

Two candlemarks later, Sirion is surrounded by guards positioned to control any rebellion that might occur, and the city's gone eerily silent.

And it stays that way, too.

Gil-galad narrows his eye over at the grain fields. They're fallow for the winter, but they've been laying mulch over it in preparation for oncoming spring. Something very bright keeps flashing over the field, though Gil-galad cannot identify what it is.

Not until Erestor gasps and steadies himself on Gil-galad's arm as if struck.

"It is- Treelight," he says hoarsely.

Gil-galad twists to look Erestor in the face. "You're certain?"

"It's impossible! The Trees-"

"Erestor," says Gil-galad. "Are you certain?"

"I- yes," he says, but he's still very pale. "When you see it... you can never unsee it. Neither Arien nor Tilion shine quite like that."

Gil-galad nods once, so sharp his neck aches. "Double the guard," he says, voice frozen over. "I'll be back soon."

...

There's not much of a crowd at the fields, though enough of one to fan Gil-galad's irritation into full-blown anger. Celeborn, Galadriel, and a few of Elwing's more common minders; and Elwing herself, of course, cupping a jewel in her small hands that shines like a star fallen to the earth.

"Gil-galad," says Galadriel warmly. "I thought you'd come here."

"Is that a Silmaril?" he asks, perfectly even.

Galadriel's eyes narrow as she takes in his expression. It's Celeborn that answers him, with a flat: "Yes."

"You brought a Silmaril from Doriath," says Gil-galad. "And hid it. For three years."

"Gil-galad-"

"You've killed us," he snarls. "You've brought the adder into our home- into our bed. For three years! You let us believe the Feanorians took the Silmaril from Doriath!"

"It was our last defiance," says Celeborn, in his slow and frosty manner. "Surely you understand why it was necessary. It can help these fields grow. Treelight was what blessed Aman, in the old days."

"I will not have it in Sirion," says Gil-galad. "I will not."

"Gil-galad," says Galadriel.

"Ereinion," he hisses back at her, and watches as she goes very pale and still. "Not Gil-galad. It will kill us. At either Morgoth's hand or the Feanorians'. We will die because of your pride."

"But before we die, we will live. Which is more than can be said for your plan, is it not?"

"Between starving to death or dying at Morgoth's hand, I know which I prefer," returns Gil-galad.

Galadriel's eyes turn into slits. "A fine thing to say, when you are not at risk of starving yourself!"

"Because I am king, you think I will not suffer alongside the rest?" Gil-galad demands, white with fury. "I know what I do for my people, Lady Galadriel. I know what I have done. If they do not eat, I do not either."

Everyone looks taken aback by his passion. Gil-galad rounds on Elwing and just barely manages to keep from snarling at her to put it away. The poor girl already looks close to tears. And it isn't her fault everyone seems to lose their minds about the gem.

"I am the lord of Sirion," he says, grimly holding onto his temper. "And this is my decision, not yours. It was foolish of you to hide it from me. An unforgivable offense."

"Dior himself wished us to flee with Elwing," says Celeborn. "He put the Silmaril in Elwing's hands. It is hers: her birthright."

"And if I am to say that it is not welcome here?"

Celeborn presses his lips together into thin lines. His hand clamps down on Elwing's shoulder, alarmingly tight; the poor girl stiffens under it.

"Then Doriath will not be welcome here," he says.

One of the advisors tosses his head. "Which would be a mistake, if you wish Sirion to survive," he says disdainfully. "We have brought you expertise you would suffer sorely without."

"If I might speak?" asks a voice Gil-galad hasn't heard before.

He turns, ready to bark at the intruder to get back behind the walls, only to come to a screeching halt.

It's Idril.

She looks remarkably similar to Finduilas, for all that they're actually second cousins and not sisters; Idril must have inherited her Vanya coloring from her mother, the way Finduilas did from Orodreth. Their faces, too, are echoingly reminiscent, and the height might even be a match, though Idril has the light of the Trees in her eyes still. And the crowning glory of them both is the exact same: golden hair, gold as Arien's rays at their height.

"Lady Idril," says Gil-galad, in a voice even he cannot recognize. "Please, speak your mind. I would appreciate your counsel."

Not to mention that the Sindar have escalated this situation- have been escalating from the beginning- and seem to have no desire to scale it back. Gil-galad cannot afford to back down now, but neither do they. If Idril hadn't come out here, it would've gotten ugly.

More ugly.

"You are right that you are king," she says. Her voice, at least, is different from Finduilas; more tenor, rich and thrumming: a singer's voice. "But for potential death we cannot accept certain death now... and there is more, certainly, that we need than bare survival."

Gil-galad clasps his hands behind his back so he isn't tempted to let them tighten into fists. "Please," he grates out. "Speak your mind. Do not- avoid the point."

Idril inclines her head. "Letting Morgoth know we have the Silmaril is not enough reason to justify letting our people starve over the coming month, if we have a method of growing food. But you are right as well, King Gil-galad. It was irresponsible and utterly foolish of the Doriathrim to pretend they did not have the jewel. Sirion shall need more protection than it already has. Protection that comes from true leadership."

"I am its true leader," says Gil-galad flatly.

"You are its heir," says Idril. "And you have inherited much, and done well with all of it. But you are not its leader yet."

"I assume you have something planned," interjects Galadriel.

"A coronation ceremony," says Idril calmly. "And a betrothal ceremony between my son and your ward. The Silmaril can be revealed then, and put to use."

Gil-galad pauses. Everyone pauses, it seems, in sheer appreciation of Idril's gall if nothing else.

Then-

"Are you mad?" demands Celeborn loudly.

"He's already been crowned!" snaps the same advisor, who's getting under Gil-galad's skin remarkably quickly. "Why does he need another?"

"Elwing deserves better than-"

"-to be discussed," says Idril firmly, speaking over the still-sputtering nurse's protests, "as if she's an object to be handed around. She is seven years old; old enough to understand what betrothal is, and what is being asked of her."

"But not all the consequences of such a decision," comments Gil-galad.

"Which is why it is not a wedding we are discussing, but a betrothal."

"Would Earendil refuse?" asks Galadriel.

"Would Elwing?" asks Idril, with an odd smile on her face.

Nobody speaks for a long moment, and then Galadriel seems to breathe out all at once: she sags, and wraps her cloak tighter around her like she's abruptly cold, despite the absence of any wind.

"We'll speak with them separately, then together," she says. "And decide on the details tomorrow. We can hold the joint ceremony in three days' time, if it all works out. How is Tuor?"

"He's fine," says Idril, sobering a little. "And the rest of it should work too." A brief hesitation, then- "You understand what it means, don't you?"

It's Galadriel's turn to smile, tight and small. "Of course. They never thought much of us, even the ones we were close to... Aredhel felt that more than me, or chafed more under the restrictions, but it was the same for us both in the end."

"Think what it might mean to your daughter," says Idril, but less leading and more pitying.

"Findis never fought, and Lalwen ran off the moment responsibility came her way." Galadriel snorts. "It isn't as if the Noldor have a history of their women demanding an inheritance. And don't ask me what Aredhel did!"

"She died before it could come her way," says Idril, quiet and level. "And even if it is mine to give away, it won't be mine for long; not with Tuor as my husband. It'll go to Earendil soon enough."

"Unless you give it away before he can receive it."

Idril doesn't laugh, for all that Galadriel said that last like it was a joke. "It's a crown that kills," she says. "I wouldn't wish it on anyone."

They both look to Gil-galad, who's been staring at them wordlessly. Their eyes are full of pity. He cannot bear it, he thinks, but that's a lie: Gil-galad can bear it. All he must do is think of a coronation ceremony in his near future.

"I will name you High King," says Idril. "The Noldor will kneel to you without reservation."

"The Sindar will also kneel to you," drawls Galadriel. "But don't think for a moment they don't have reservations."

"Don't worry," says Gil-galad. He swallows, and the cold air sticks in his throat like a thousand thorns. "Whether Noldor or Sindar- I know they'll all have concerns. It's part and parcel of becoming king."

He nods to them, and to Elwing, and then stalks back into the keep. They can construct the ceremony and decide the details. Gil-galad's got some more pressing matters on his mind, including calling off the guards, figuring out more defenses for the city, and, amid all of it, finagling a list of eligible betrothals out of someone paying attention to the current marriage market.

After all, his current plan for a bride has just found herself a partner.

...

Celebrimbor comes up to him at the end of the following day, smiling a little awkwardly. He's lost weight since arriving at Sirion, which is mildly alarming given the manner in which he came, but it doesn't seem to have affected his work very much; he still spends long hours in the forge, working on some project or the other. Gil-galad knows that Galadriel would've banished him- she's ruthlessly pragmatic that way- but that's more evidence to keep him as far Celebrimbor is concerned.

"I thought you should know," he says. "It was a little- project- that I forgot about in the rush from Nargothrond. But I had the latest version of it in one of my bags, and found it last night- it's something you'd appreciate, I think."

He hands over a small bottle filled with a clear liquid. The bottle is heavier than it looks; Gil-galad's first instinct had been that it was glass, but now he thinks it's a gemstone instead, sung to be in the perfect shape.

"What is it?"

"A perfume." Celebrimbor looks down, eyes drifting half-lidded, before he jerks back to look at Gil-galad again. "Finduilas asked me to make it."

Gil-galad nearly drops the bottle. "Finduilas asked it of you?"

"It surprised me too," says Celebrimbor, a little wryly. "She never liked coming to the forges, and stopped entirely after Finrod left. But she wanted this. Said it reminded her of her childhood."

Carefully, Gil-galad unstoppers it. The sweet scent of aeglos fills the room, sharp and summer-heavy. For a moment, Gil-galad can do nothing more than breathe. It's been so long since he actually smelled it: though vines of aeglos grow this far south, very few of them actually flower the way they do near Anfauglith.

"Thank you," he says after a moment. "Finduilas- would have loved it."

"She loved you very much," says Celebrimbor carefully. "Once- she mentioned to me that you wanted her to visit you, and she was sorry that she couldn't." A brief pause, and then- "They say aeglos grows near her grave, even now."

She might have lived for a little longer if she had, thinks Gil-galad. But then- who knows how much longer? Sirion will fall too. Soon, if not immediately. What use would a few more decades, if that, have been?

"Thank you," says Gil-galad again.

Celebrimbor hesitates before stepping out. Gil-galad watches him leave, and has to resist the urge to scream into his elbow; in the end he ends up just sitting in silence. There are papers to file, arguments to be heard; tomorrow is going to be intolerable if he doesn't get ahead in the paperwork in the scarce time he has for it.

But Celebrimbor had come to him. Had looked at him, with those lovely eyes like quicksilver and stormy skies. He must have heard the rumors that Gil-galad had no bonds to his fea: that he'd never mourned either parents or sister, never grieved even as Minas Tirith and Nargothrond fell into disuse. But Celebrimbor had come to give this perfume to him, despite all those rumors, and he'd been unbearably kind about all of it.

We'd want you to live rather than be storied, Finduilas had once told him.

Gil-galad swears under his breath and leaps for the door. Down the corridor, out the stairs, and straight into Celebrimbor's- incredibly broad- back; Gil-galad doesn't hesitate when he turns around, bewildered, to fist his hands in Celebrimbor's collar and drive him into a nearby alcove, tucked between two buildings.

"My king," says Celebrimbor, though he looks more amused than confused now.

"Did I read it wrong?" asks Gil-galad, trying to stifle his panting but only succeeding in ratcheting his heartrate even higher. Everything feels suddenly tight, like it'll burst open: a ripe grape being plucked off its vine. "If I did-"

"No," says Celebrimbor, and he's definitely smiling now, eyes gleaming, "you didn't."

"Good," says Gil-galad fiercely, and reaches up, and kisses Celebrimbor like he's drowning.

...

They kiss until Gil-galad feels like his lips are wasp-stung and sensitive, but eventually pull away. They can't spend more time together, unfortunately; Gil-galad really does have far too much to do to take an afternoon off, and Celebrimbor, too, has a project he doesn't want to leave in the forge unattended for too long. But they decide to have breakfast the next morning together, and to meet the night after the coronation ceremony.

...

Idril stops by his private room that night, and takes him up to a small tree atop a rolling hill. She looks achingly like Finduilas, but different enough to leave Gil-galad's shoulders twitching.

"Galadriel said you'd avoid me," she says calmly. "I did not think it would be quite so obvious, however."

Gil-galad looks at her, surprised. "I apologize," he says, slowly, "if I have offended you. But I thought you would appreciate privacy in the case of your husband's illness, and would emerge on your own time. I have not been trying to avoid you."

"You do not look me in the eye."

"You," says Gil-galad, "do not look me in the eye."

Idril pauses, as if taken aback. Then she laughs ruefully. "We are ghosts, the both of us, are we not? You as my uncle; me as your sister. All the living ghosts of our kin, distilled in us happy few."

"Many of our kin have died," acknowledges Gil-galad carefully.

"I brought you here to ask you if this is what you want. This kingship- this crown- it is a dangerous one. Finwe died wearing it, and so did Feanor and Fingolfin; so did Fingon, and my own father. This will make you into a target for Morgoth. For the Feanorians, too, if they are looking for hostages."

"My mother named me Ereinion," he replies. "I've been a target since the day I was born in the middle of a war, Lady Idril. This will only solidify my power."

She looks suddenly sad. "It will kill you, too."

"But it will be a glorious end."

"I've never thought that mattered very much," says Idril softly. "Dead is dead."

"Between Fingolfin's death and Maeglin's, which would you prefer?"

She sucks breath in sharply, like half a gasp. "You do not pull your punches, do you?"

"Death will come for us all," says Gil-galad coldly. "All we can do is choose how we surrender. And I will not go whimpering into the dark."

"You will break their hearts," says Idril. "And you will shine more glorious than any king before you. I wish you the best of it." She turns, and peers off the hillside to the far distance: the west, from which she had come, once, a very long time ago. "I will crown you with my father's crown tomorrow. Galadriel wishes for you to wear Sindar gems in your hair- she'll braid them in the morning, if you are amenable."

"I would be glad to bear it. And it would be... appropriate, too. In its own way."

Idril bows her head, and nods to him, and then walks back silently. Gil-galad watches her leave, but stays long enough to admire the brilliant starlight pouring down over him, and the salty breeze from the sea, and the fading sting of Celebrimbor's teeth on his lower lip.

...

The next morning, Gil-galad rises at dawn and bathes with proper soap and bristle, taking care to sluice off all of the grime and dirt, and to wash his hair properly: he doesn't want to hear Galadriel complain about having to handle it. He dresses in a plain white tunic and rough trousers, and laces up the boots someone must have polished overnight. It's all he has time to do before Galadriel slides into his bedchamber.

"Ereinion," she says, coolly dignified.

Gil-galad nods to her in greeting. "Idril told me you wished to braid Sindar jewels into my hair."

"Thingol's own jewels," agrees Galadriel, but she doesn't relax at all out of her stiff posture. "Turn around. I'm not the best at this- I was so relieved when it became clear Doriath didn't have the same elaborate braids as in Aman- and it won't do to have it look sloppy."

"Who should I ask instead?" asks Gil-galad curiously.

Galadriel frowns. "Well- you can't. They're all dead." She tugs at his hair, sharp enough it brings tears to his eyes. "I thought that was rather the point."

If that's a measure of her mood, Gil-galad will be lucky to attend his coronation with any hair at all. He decides that discretion's the better part of valor, and goes silent. Galadriel, too, seems relieved by it; she starts humming a little about halfway through the braids, and when she's done it looks incredibly ornate and shiny, which Gil-galad would never have associated with the Sindar... but the large silver leaves do look eerily like sycamore leaves, and the moonstones threaded between glitter like so many drops of water, so maybe it is very much the wood-elf style.

"Thank you," says Gil-galad, just before Galadriel leaves. "It looks- incredible."

Galadriel's voice is brisk, but her eyes look sad as she takes him in. "If you want to pin your furs to your shoulder, do it a little lower than you usually do. Don't undo the knot at the nape of your neck: it'll unravel the rest of it."

Gil-galad nods.

The rest of the process is incredibly easy. He slides Fingon's ring onto his left hand, and his father's armband onto his right arm, and Finrod's gold-and-silver knife into his belt. Then he thinks better of it- Gil-galad's a warrior king, not one built for peace- and grabs up the spear he's been working on for decades now.

The ash is pale, but Gil-galad had dyed the hickory darker when he was first singing the wood together. Now the different woods have braided together into alternating light and dark brown, topped with a spear-head Gil-galad made himself.

Carefully, Gil-galad unstoppers the aeglos perfume Celebrimbor gave him, and lets a few precious drops soak into the wood. Involuntary tears spring to his eyes, but he chokes them back. Today is a day for ghosts: all the ghosts of Gil-galad's history alighting on his shoulders as he takes up the burden that killed them.

Fingon's chosen, Galadriel had said. Fingon's chosen, and Finrod's lineage; inheritor of Lalwen's domain and Turgon's people.

Finduilas' brother, too, and his mother's son, she had not known to add. Because Gil-galad's hands will be bare for the first time in a very long time: baring his scars, revealing the aeglos thorns that had once punctured scarless skin.

He will take up the mantle of High King once more, today, but that is not the vow he makes to himself, wearing a dozen things from a dozen dead men:

Gil-galad looks out into the blinding dawn, alone, ghostful, and swears that, eventually, he will outshine all of his predecessors.

...

Little Elwing bears her Silmaril in her small hands, eyes shining, and Gil-galad laughs delightedly: he can see the reflection of the Silmaril off the jewels in his hair and Turgon's crown- which had been Celebrimbor's late project, to restore the pale gold of Turgon's crown to its former luster, and to place diamonds in all the places where studded jewels had fallen out.

Crowned in stars, his mother had seen, and he is, now: he has been.

And for all the grief that brought him here- for all the loss, and death, and all the mourning yet to come in the future- he cannot regret any of it. This is his destiny. This is his future. This is where he belongs.

...

Though he never does get to visit Finduilas' grave before Beleriand drowns, Gil-galad commissions the aeglos perfume from Celebrimbor until well into the Second Age, and rides into every battle of the War of Wrath with his spear drenched in it. Only after Celebrimbor's death does he give a name to the spear: one last memory, to the family he has left behind so very many years previous: like the thorns, like the flowers, like his mother's savior and his own silver scars.

#fuck offfffffffffffffffffff #silmarillion #gil-galad #my writing #this got so incredibly long and also i can't believe i wrote silm canon gil galad instead of fin galad but like!!!!#how am i supposed to live w all these echoes on echoes on echoes of grief #????

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zealouswerewolfcollector · 2 months

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WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @welcomingdisaster, @polutrope, @cuarthol and @melestasflight. Thank you all so much <333

Sharing a very recently written passage from a kinkmeme fill I might never finish.

“What happened to your resolution to never marry?” Fingon asked in righteous, desperate anger. “When I opened my heart before you, you told me you your feelings were only of friendship and kinship. You said you were loath to touch another as a spouse and would never suffer someone’s touch.” That ship has sailed, Maedhros thought, but he couldn’t tell that to Fingon. Couldn’t give him an opening to find another argument to use against Maedhros’s decision, to give him a chance to claim that Maedhros wasn’t in his right mind after his ordeal in Angband. His brothers had done plenty of that. “Is that what made you so wroth?” he asked instead with a condescending smile he knew would infuriate Fingon. “Jealousy? Can you not bear the thought that I chose your father over you?” “You know well that is not what troubles me! My father is already married! He cannot take a second spouse. He cannot dishonor my mother so.” “If Grandfather agreed with that, neither you, nor your father would be here now.” “My mother is not dead!” “She might as well be.” Maedhros knew Fingon wouldn’t hit someone who could barely walk, but he came very close to it. Then he closed his eyes, took a few breaths, unclenched his fists and dropped down on his chair. Fingon had no choice. He had to accept it or leave the lands the Noldor had claimed. But he would never do it. He would never abandon his people, no matter how much he despised Maedhros or Fingolfin. Maedhros waited patiently for Fingon to come to that conclusion. Finally, Fingon opened his eyes, face hardened, decision made. For a moment, he looked so much like his father. “I will follow you and obey you as my kings,” he said. “But I will never forgive you.”

Tagging @amethysttribble, @grey-gazania, @thescrapwitch, @sallysavestheday, @ettelene

#silmarillion #maedhros #fingon #tag game #past abuse between the lines

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havenotwillnotreadthebooks · 6 months

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Finwe with PTSD from endorë tho? Finwe headcanon here we go-

Finwe and all the others from Endorë (no I’m not spelling culivian and u cant make me) having trauma from being in a Life or Death situation for Years.

But once they get to Valinor, it's all okay now that they’re safe, right?

Wrong.

The valar tells them You Gained These Scars, Now Live With Them.

And they do.

How would any of the elves know better? After scurrying around in the dark like rats under Melkor’s boots, were they really in a place to even question the valar to that extent? Would they even feel safe to ask the valar if maybe things could be better? When your in Survival Mode, you don’t think about these things, and especially don’t ask them of your saviors, however incompetent their methods may seem. You don’t ask. They didn’t ask. They, realistically, couldn’t ask.

So now there are traumatized elves, now what?

Life, and continuing as if Endorë never happened, or make it into a bedtime story with blunted edges and blurred character disappearances. Make the trauma a story, a history, a painting, something that’s over and meaningless now as anything beyond a story.

Then things happen, Feanor is born, and Finwe is Falling Apart until he shoves Stuff underneath a mental carpet, to the detriment of his future family members yet to be born.

More things happen; The Noldor leave. The Noldor die.

Then they live.

They’re coming out of Mandos, healed and regretful and still scarred in their new bodies but they’re alive.

Except; When Finwe comes out, having “healed” enough to pass the door and having broken both his marriage bonds, he is seen in a new light.

Suddenly, their dad, their grandfather, their great-granddad who always seemed so happy during the years of the trees-

He is terribly, horrifically familiar.

The Taken; who met Sauron face to face while bound, can see a familiar hesitance to break the peace, to make any move that would anger the waters and make things so very loud (Finwe smiles at them, and says he has never liked his family fighting, that’s all.) (Maedhros will wonder why he never noticed that grandfather never went swimming with them, or to the beach itself. He thinks he knows why. He doesn’t want to know. He knows anyway).

The Fighters and Hunters; who thinned out Morgoth’s beasts and fought Sauron face to face, can see a familiar paranoia. Finwe is always checking for exits, his eyes calm and his body tense, ready to fight or flee. Finwe identifies the sharp objects in the room immediately, hidden as just “checking out the decor”. (Celegorm, for maybe the first time, wonders what the beasts in Endorë were really like during Finwë’s time, worse or better than orcs. He’ll wonder how smoothed out his grandfather’s stories were when he told them to his young, safe grandchildren.) (Fingon thinks of fighting in the dark, with no light besides the stars and no fire as to not attract more beasts. He thinks of waking up to a new, dangerous world with Nothing. He thinks he would’ve become something terrible to survive it.) (Neither ask their grandfather anything. Celegorm isn’t ready to Know. Fingon isn’t ready to See).

The Survivors; They look at the grandfather who always seemed so old and wise and think Oh, because that’s not wisdom gained in peace, that's wisdom gained after war. (Galadriel wants to help, but how could she even speak of it to him? No, she will linger, and wait). (Maglor wouldn’t know what to say, he’s barely healed himself, he can’t imagine living like this for thousands of years with family none the wiser. He doesn’t think he could help his grandfather) (They both could; Neither will speak).

It’s a fun concept to think maybe Finwë isn’t okay, has never been okay, and can’t be okay until his family faces themselves first.

#tag.words #finwe #silm headcanon #long post

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finnritter · 1 year

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Gondolin Week 2023 - Day One: Feast of Summer

Turgon, FA 510, May 27

Time rushes. After years that seemed frozen in stone and barely seizable, everything has started moving again, faster and faster.

He has a grandson now, and a son-in-law, whom he both loves so much, for their good hearts and bright spirits and for the smile they can conjure on Idril’s face. They are a reminder, every day, that time is still moving forward, that they are moving towards something.

And yet, while his family has been growing, his last sibling has been dead for almost four decades.

Turgon tries not to think too often about him. Often if he does, things begin to slip again, like he is losing his grip on reality. It's happening less, these days, not how it was shortly after the Nirnaeth, when days after days had passed without him really taking notice. But it still happens, sometimes, that a dangerously straying thought pulls the rug out from under his feet and leaves him trapped with his people’s glorious defeat.

It had been only one time when he had dared to risk everything, but they had lost in such a way that it wouldn’t have mattered if he had just kept abandoning his brother. And now they must endure. And yet it feels like they are waiting for something, like something is stewing just out of their reach.

Like Fingon is still throwing a shadow over him every time he puts on the crown and feels like a fraud.

Don’t go there, he reminds himself. Don’t think about him now.

Idril worries, too.

He grasps for the thought of her like it’s a lifeline, and tries to consciously breathe in the fresh morning air to remind himself where he is.

It’s not a much nicer thought because she worries to the point where she is looking weary and stressed and he hates seeing her like this.

He would like to help, would like to know what ails her so. It’s not about him, not only, that’s as much as he knows, but it’s also nothing she would tell him about. Maybe she would have told him a decade or two ago. Or four. Maybe not. But nowadays, she doesn’t.

The knowledge hurts Turgon more than he would admit, although he is glad that, in her husband, she has someone beside her old father to open up to now. Someone to brace her when Turgon won’t be able to do it anymore.

That’s also not a good thought.

Maeglin is quiet as well, but he is remarkably obliging, too. The latter worries Turgon more than the former because it means that something is wrong.

But he won't talk to Turgon either, he rarely does and less so if he's pushed, so Turgon leaves it be.

Irisse would not have left it be. She would have tried to coax the truth out of her son and niece, she would have tried to get to the bottom of what was being kept from her.

She would have argued with him, too. Would have tried to coax him out of his shell, only to frustrate him to no end in the process. They probably would have fought, and reconciled shortly after. He doesn’t want to think about her.

Atar would have- No, he is not going there.

Fingon- Not there either.

His thoughts have run the first full lap and he tries to force them onward, to break the circle. He can’t think about Fingon without thinking about how they lost. How he lost him, how hope was lost with him.

And yet- And yet...

They are approaching the Tarnin Austa, the Gates of Summer, the most important festival that belongs solely to their young, motley gondolidhren culture. Fingon has never heard about it, but he would have liked it, Turgon is sure of it.

Maybe this is the right moment to think about Fingon, if ever. Maybe it’s time to think about how, bathed in the first sunrise of this coming summer, the echo of his brother’s last futile triumph will ring out the loudest.

The day has come.

The day has come, and gone. But it was not the last day, not for everyone. Day shall come again, as it rings in Turgon’s head as the accompaniment of his bitter defeat. Maybe there’s a truth in those words, though.

Day might come again. Summer will come again. The light will be bright, and the sun will be warm. They will wait in silence for this new hope, every year anew, and it has always come.

This year will be no different, and maybe, this time, hope will last after all.

Idril, FA 510, May 31

The last day of spring in Gondolin is simultaneously the most stressful and the most solemn day of the year.

Idril enjoys it, enjoys the buzzing of the last hectic preparations.There are those for the grand feast that is being held out in the city streets and all over the brilliantly decorated King’s Square and the Great Market, last minute setups, preparation of food and drinks, arranging of instruments for those who will brighten up the coming of day with music, and the construction of dancefloors and podiums all over outstanding sites of the city.

Idril, who as usually has been on the planning committee that started their work months ago – the members are so enthusiastic about the feast every year that her job mostly consists of talking people out of ideas that are just too crazy to actually accomplish and making sure to safely enable others – feels a sense of pride and gratitude to see everything come together like this. It is surprising, every year, how exuberantly everyone throws themselves into preparations, how high the anticipation rises every year anew, even in times like these, when Idril often feels like collapsing under the dark, evil grasp that seems to tighten around their little oasis of fragile peace.

But maybe that is the point; they need this. She needs this. Even though it sometimes felt like treacherous thing to worry about the right appetisers or the colour of garlands in the face of rising chaos outside their valley; they need something to keep believing in.

Sometimes she looks at her father and the way his gaze still often closes off as he drifts back to horrors she would gladly clear from his memory. Tthe way he clenches his jaw in denial whenever someone even brazes the mention of opening the gates, and how if betrays his fear, if only to her. And seeing this makes it easier for her to swallow her own worries, if just for a day. To not think about her dreams for once. Not even those that seem to mess with the borders of time and reality, those that show her futures she hopes aren’t written in stone yet.

But they are prepared. They deserve a day of song and laughter in between all this mess.

She shakes her head as if to clear it out, and then she finishes helping with the last of the preparations outside and heads to her own house to see what her most beloved boys have brought about in the meantime.

After the grand feast outside, it is custom to split up into smaller groups of friends and family and continue celebrating the day inside the own four walls or gardens. Idril loves this part almost more than the official celebrations, just because she knows that there barely are set traditions and every family does it differently. She loves this, loves hearing some of her neighbours sing until deep into the next night while another couple often sits on their balcony that is barely visible from her and Tuor’s place and just talks and talks and talks. She loves that Tuor and her have started the tradition of hiding little affectionate notes for each other around the house – some of which they often find only days later – and that Eärendil excitedly joins in with his own messages, written in the scrawly hand of a young child.

When she comes home, she finds the decorations mostly done, the food ready and out of reach of the therefore rather sorrowful dogs, and her two boys passed out together in Idril and Tuor’s bed.

She smiles and gently closes the door, letting them collect a bit of sleep for the long night that awaits them. She will wake them up in time for dinner, traditionally only a small, modest meal held shortly before the beginning of dusk.

With the onset of evening the Gondolindrim will slowly begin to gather on the big squares, or in their case high up on the front balcony of the palace, talking quietly among themselves and getting in the right mood for the long, silent night that awaits them from midnight till the first ray of sunlight.

Idril absentmindedly sets straight some ornaments that have gone askew and then settles down on her armchair, where she strokes one of the dogs’ ears and tries not to glance over her shoulder to the row of shelves that hides a yearlong project that will hopefully never be put to use.

It will all be alright, she thinks. We deserve this. We will greet summer with laughter and song in our hearts, and it will all be well, in the end.

Eärendil, FA 510, June 1

The night of the last day of May is the only one when Eärendil is allowed to stay up way past his bedtime. Actually, he is allowed to not sleep at all, which, obviously, is terribly exciting.

The whole day he has watched his parents and the people of the city prepare everything for the feast and he has tried to help where he can as well. He has set a whole table by himself and took extra care to place all the cutlery very neatly and to make sure that all the carefully folded serviettes (not carefully folded by him, although the kind woman who had done it had tried to show him how to) are shown to advantage.

He has also helped to prepare some of the food in one of the palace’s biggest kitchens, but he has been thrown out by the main chef because he apparently was getting in the feet of everyone. He hasn’t, he was very careful to not run into anybody while they were handling the food, but they might have been annoyed that he brought one of his parents’ dogs. Dogs don’t belong into kitchens, and apparently, neither do small boys.

After all that hustle with the last preparations, Eärendil has been very excited for the feast to finally begin. He can remember last year’s, which has been great fun, and the one before as well. The one three years ago, he isn’t so sure about. His Atto says that he has an excellent memory, and he can even recall glimpses of many things about the years when he has been very, very little, but he is no elf, so he can’t always remember everything.

But before the celebrations could begin, they must get through the night of silence. Which Eärendil has not yet managed to do without sleeping in, but he will really try this year. It’s not his fault that he is a child and needs more sleep than all the adults. He even needs more sleep than elven children do, at his age, because he is half-mortal. His Atto has more problems than all the elves to not sleep at all for one whole night, so he usually takes a very long nap together with Eärendil at noon the day before the Feast. They have done this today as well, but Eärendil has been far too excited to sleep and he didn’t want to lay around and do nothing for hours. This has been when he has tried to help in the kitchen, actually, before someone has ushered him home where he reluctantly has crawled in with his Atto into bed again.

But still, a while after midnight, when everything and everyone is eerily silent and the city looks still and static like a painting, Eärendil does begin to get very tired again. It’s hard, to not talk for so long, and be expected to be as still as he can and do nothing that makes much of a racket. He has focussed on looking up at the stars at first, like most elves around him do to. But it’s not much fun if he can’t even tell the others what constellations he can make out in the endless dark sky, so now he is cradled into his Atto’s arms, resting his head against his wide shoulders that always remind him of a bear or a lion that can walk on two legs because he is so strong and broad (and a little furry, in the face) and has trouble keeping his eyes open.

He knows that it won’t be a problem if he falls asleep. He does not have to stay awake, and actually, if he doesn’t, he will be way more awake and fit for the celebrations in the morning. And Amil has promised to wake him up before dawn. He wants to be awake a little before the first sunrise in any case because he wants to be the first one to see the light. He has decided to sit on his grandfather’s shoulders this year, because he is the tallest elf he knows and like this he really has an advantage on seeing the light first. Maybe it’s really better to fall asleep now, so his eyes will be keener and more alert in the morning. He really does not want to miss the first light.

…

When he wakes up, he sees his Amil smile at him and put a finger over his lips. He is confused at first, and also confused why they are outside in the dark, why he is lying on a bench at the back of the palace’s huge balcony, with a pillow under his head and a blanket wrapped tightly around him.

Then he remembers and suddenly is very awake. He repeats his Amil’s gesture and tries to sign that he wants to sit on grandfather’s shoulders now. He is very hurried because he is afraid that it might be already dawn any minute, but as he finally rests on his grandfather’s shoulders – slimmer than his Atto’s, but almost as steady – he can see that while the sky begins to grey at the egdes, dawn is surely still a short while away.

So he waits, in silence and in wonder, like everyone else. The sky becomes lighter and lighter, but Tillion takes his time. Eärendil absent-mindedly begins to twist a few strands of his grandfather’s silky, dark hair between his fingers, before he remembers that the king, who is so kind to do him this favour despite standing here before his whole people, surely would mind snares in his hair, especially today. He folds his hands on top of his head instead, and looks east, for the sun, and the summer it will bring with it, today.

#i hope i haven't been to liberal with the prompt #but the angst just happened and i liked the thought of losely connecting those three POVs #i'll probably do something similar with the rest even though i hope they don't turn out as long #bc i have been lazy and barely wrote anything in advance #silmarillion #fall of gondolin #turgon #idril #eärendil #tuor #(also cameo of idril and tuor's dogs bc i love them)#silm fic #silmarillion fic #my writing #gondolinweek #gondolinweek2023

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